


Cigarette Smoke and Snark

by ScaryScarecrows



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: A wild Riddler appears in chapter 85, Angst, Black Comedy, Dr. Crane is honored to have assisted in Jason's Robin Development, Gen, Jason is a drama queen, Long-suffering minion, Monster Clown, Nobody likes that, One Shot Collection, Put That Robin Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me: a plea from Gotham's Underworld to the Joker, Scarecrow dropped by, Snark, Swearing, Terrified Goons, The Militia has seen some shit, The Militia wasn't prepared for Man-Bat, The Three M's of Vigilantism: Mockery Maiming and Murder, Torture, Trigger Warning: Joker, cocoons, it's Jason swearing is a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-10-05 02:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 117
Words: 162,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10295831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: A collection of one-shots involving Jason Todd.





	1. Mornings Suck

AN: Fuck me. Literally, I didn’t…this…IT’S NOT MY FAULT. One little one-shot, I said. For fun, I said. And here we are. Takes mostly from _Arkham Knight_ ’s view of things-

**Gee. Thanks.**

YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WON’T LEAVE.

**You…you don’t want me? I just…I thought…maybe someone would…**

Aw, hell, that’s not what I meant…wait.

**Sucker.**

Why. Why me. Anyways. Here. Take him. Does not fit in with my regular canon, because I don’t trust him not to screw with it.

**I would never! Well, okay, I miiight, but…**

Y’know, maybe there’s a reason he got killed off initially.

**HEY! I came for cookies.**

There are no cookies here.

**…I’ve made a huge mistake.**

* * *

It’s a toss-up, Jason Todd thinks, if his theme song is ‘Hate Everyone’ or ‘Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums’. ‘Counting Bodies’ is more badass, definitely sounds better played before (and during!) an ass-kicking, but ‘Hate Everyone’ is, at this moment, more accurate.

Needs some tweaks, though. He can draw up a mile-long list of people responsible for his current misery (Bruce, the Clown, that asshole with the machete that got lucky last night, need he go on?), but the real problem right now isn’t…a person. Exactly.

No, it is that cheerful, baby-faced-in-that-one-creepy-kid’s-show bastard, the sun. Fucker’s found a gap in his curtains and is doing its damndest to exploit it. This is bullshit, is what this is. It is eight-thirty-two in the morning, he calls fucking foul.

Ugh.

The sun beams warmly down on him, turning the view of his eyelids Joker-grin-red, and he forces them to crack open. BRIGHT. Holy CRAP, that’s bright.

He flips the sun off, for good measure.

When it doesn’t leave, he drags himself up (three hours of sleep, c’mon, man…), mashes around the coffee maker until he hears the button click, and wonders how long it’s going to be before he takes a hellovalotta notice of the gash running from his left shoulder blade to halfway down the right side of his ribcage. Lucky bastard had a machete. Long story. Considering the placement, he thinks he did good in patching it (all by himself, screw you, Dickie-bird). Of course, he also took maaayyybe a few more painkillers than the bottle says (he has a tolerance now, so sue him), so who knows, really.

It is too early to be awake…couldn’t it be raining? Nine out of ten days, it rains, why couldn’t today be one of those?

Hurmph.

The coffee pot has gone silent and when he forces his eyelids up a little more, he sees that it’s done. Finally. If he has to be awake, he can at least have coffee.

Stretching for a mug moves **everything** wrong and y’know, apparently painkillers don’t do jack when you move this way. Good to know. He would’ve appreciated knowing this a little sooner, say, **before** his back was pitching a bitch-fit, but hey. It’s just one of those days.

He takes his hard-won coffee into the bathroom-ow, the artificial light’s worse than the sun-and does a little gentle twisting to see what damage stretching did.

Not much. Granted, the slash there is jagged and red and it’s probably going to be real fun trying to wear a shirt, but it’s not bleeding or anything terrible. Yet. It could’ve been worse, really. Though to be fair, he’s having a real hard time coming up with anything worse than the Joker.

It’s too early for this.

The coffee tastes off and he wonders if something’s up with his machine. Or the water. Or…

He takes an experimental sip. Wait. Wait one goddamn minute.

He stalks back to the kitchen and rifles through his (okay, could be fuller, he hates stores) cupboards until he finds the canister. He flips it upside-down and tears the sticky note off the bottom.

_You need sleep, not caffeine! <3, D._

Jason breathes deeply, counts to ten three times, and shreds the sticky note. This is bullshit. He will take the mother-henning, he will take the ‘please come home we miss you and Alfred made cookies!’, but **this**. This crosses the goddamn line. You do **not** fuck with a man’s coffee supply.

That settles it, he decides. ‘Hate Everyone’ is his theme song, even if it’s not that badass. It’s accurate, dammit.

Great. Now he has to go to Starbucks. This fucking sucks.

THE END


	2. Sinister Kid

AN: Title and inspiration from the Black Keys song of that name.

**At least your music taste’s not a complete dumpster fire.**

Don’t you sass me. I have the power to shoot you.

**Uh-huh.**

I WILL DO IT.

**Behold the field in which I grow my fucks. Note that it is barren.**

Great. I’m dealing with a smartass.

**Better than a dumbass!**

Why. Why me.

**Uh…somethin’ about feelin’ bad for me?**

Amazing. Real people? Eh, fuck ‘em. Fictional characters? POOR BABY LET ME LOVE YOU.

* * *

Jason yawns and makes himself semi-comfortable against the crumbling chimney. Why the hell this building has a chimney is beyond him, but hey. Free back rest. Who’s he to complain?

Bits of brick fall off and he hopes he doesn’t…y’know…topple the chimney. God, he’d never hear the end of it. Everyone he knows is fucking omniscient, there’d be no hiding it. And then **every** time he might be winning an argument, they’d pipe up with, ‘at least I didn’t knock a chimney off a roof by leaning on it’ and that’d be it.

Please, God-he-doesn’t-believe-in, don’t let this chimney topple because he leaned on it. Amen.

He considers tapping ash off his cigarette and decides that nah, he’s gonna try to set a record. Mz. Melinda May is a pro at long ash, but she smokes cigars and therefore doesn’t really count.

It’s a quiet night-probably because it’s fucking cold, there’s **snow** , for chrissake-but he’s heard rumors of a link in a trafficking chain hangin’ around this area. So here he is, waiting to see if the fucker’ll show.

Hopefully he’ll make it soon. He’s cold. Kicking the guy’s ass would make him warm. (And it’d be fun. Hey, it’s not like he doesn’t do what everyone’s thinkin’ regarding these creatures. Geeze, step off your moral high ground.)

A shiver ruins his ash and he brushes it off his pant leg. Bummer. Oh, well, unless he fucks up really bad and dies in the next three hours, he’s got more cigarettes to smoke.

Come oooon, it’s **cold**.

The door opens and he pokes his head over the edge. It’s showtime.

He puts his helmet back on and drops down on the guy.

It’s a funny thing. Traffickers, by and large, are very chill with hurting and scaring little kids. When confronted with someone their own size, though, there’s a lotta crying and sniveling and ‘please God lemme go’. Idiots. If there was a God, Jason wouldn’t be here.

Which just makes it all the more satisfying to slam the guy against the wall.

“Let’s play a game.” The guy gurgles and he eases his grip. A little. So he won’t die before he can talk. “The game is called ‘I ask you questions, and for every lie you tell, I break something. Sound fun?”

“Please-”

“For every question you refuse to answer, I break two somethings.” he continues cheerfully. “Let’s start with somethin’ easy. What’s your name?”

There’s crying, but when he starts puttin’ pressure on a finger the guy gasps out, “Sean! Sean Pence!”

That matches up. Good, he’s willing to play along.

“See, this is fun. Sean-can I call you Sean? Think I’ll call you Sean, makes this more personal-I’ve been…hearing things. About you, and some other people, and some shipments that aren’t gettin’ logged.” And oh, it is **tempting** to start breaking bones regardless, but…he’ll wait. Be calm. Anticipation breeds more fear breeds loose lips. (He knows, oh, god, he knows that so well.) “So. What do you know? Got any names for me?”

More crying. Okay, a little bit of shock never hurt anybody, and a broken finger works better than a bitch-slap to bring people back to reality. (He knows that, too.)

The break is quiet, a little louder than a cracking knuckle, but it’s only because he’s quick to cover the guy’s mouth that the scream doesn’t make up for that.

Three…two…one…

“ **Names** , Sean. C’mon, I know you’ve got ‘em.”

Sean gasps against the leather glove, swallows a few times. Then lips move and Jason moves his hand an inch away. No attention-grabbing shrieks come out.

“Bolich.” he babbles. “Bryan Bolich, he’s the only one I talk to, man, I _swear-_ ”

“Swearing always means you’re lying.”

“I’m not, I’m not-”

He breaks another finger, muffles the screams again.

“FUCK okay! Okay! Frank Spice, I talk to him, but that’s all, that’s all!”

“I believe you. I do. So this is what you’re going to do. You’re going to go back to work,”-ugh, saying it wants to make him either puke or pound Sean’s face into a bloody pulp-“and you’re going to tell me when the next shipment is.”

“How’ll I find ya?”

“I’ll find you. And I’ll know if you open your mouth.” He leans closer, mask-to-ear. It’s the best he can do, and most people freak appropriately, so. “You pissed off the wrong guy at a bar, if anyone asks about your fingers and elbow.”

“Elbow?”

“Oh. Almost forgot. Gimme a sec, Sean.”

He lets him scream this time, drops him on the ground and heads off.

He has some research to do.

THE END


	3. Gasoline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and idea from the Halsey song of the same name.  
> Sorry, cinnamon, but ask Dr. Crane-if I can inflict psychological trauma (or make you remember it), I will. Writers are sadists, that’s all.

He’s hurting from the inside out.

His choice of resting place probably isn’t helping, but his bed was just too many steps away and it was either the chair or collapse on the floor. Hell, he’d barely managed to get his helmet off before going down **hard** , phantom disappointment ringing in his ears before he’d checked out.

Now, though, he’s really, really regretting it.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion and **fuck me sideways with a chainsaw** , he hears a noise. That’s not weird-cheap apartments do jack for noise reduction. (He’s just grateful his next door neighbors moved out-it was either screaming fights or screaming sex and that was awful.)

What was that, though? He knows most of the neighborly noises by now-nothing next door, it’s empty, upstairs is usually the news or classical music, downstairs is show tunes or alternative rock (and never at this hour), across the hall is _The Price is Right_ …this wasn’t any of that.

**Tap-tap.**

No. No, no, no, **NO.** He didn’t hear that, he’s tired and a little out of it and probably concussed he didn’t hear that he **didn’t-**

**Scraaaape-tap-tap.**

He tries to get up and-

-can’t. He can feel the duct tape around his chest and the cuffs on his wrists and the laughter in his head isn’t in his head at all it’s right in front of him.

“Hellooooo.” He tries to say something-a ‘fuck off’, at least, but his throat isn’t working. “How _are_ we tonight, Jay-can I call you Jay? Think it fits you. Lit-tle Jay-bird, with his clipped wings.”

This is worse, this is worse because at least before he could hope for rescue (at first) but now? Bruce won’t come, he knows no one’s coming for him and fuck he can’t even **scream-**

**Tap-tap-tap.**

Where is he? Before, the bastard had no problem being seen-once did some sort of weird dance between crowbar strikes, called it ‘Uncle Joker’s Irish Jig’. So where is he now?

Breathe. He needs to breathe. No one’s coming, he’ll have to save himself.

But he can’t move, can’t even open his mouth or **blink**. The clown’s drugged him, given him a paralytic or somethin’-

Finally, the purple fucker skips forward, twirling the bloodstained crowbar like a dancer’s cane.

“Wakey, wakey, pain and achey!” He cackles and whacks the crowbar against the carpet. “Surprise!”

He knows no one’s coming. Doesn’t stop him from wishing Bruce would crash through the window.

The Joker rests the crowbar against his knees, spits on his palms, and spends a minute heaving at it like a circus strongman.

“Whoo! This is heavy, Jay.”

Just get it over with, please-

“But you already know that, don’t you?” Yellow teeth shine in the light from the streetlamps outside. “Crack, crack, ‘Batman, help me!’” He shakes with laughter and the crowbar clatters to the ground. Jason tries to swallow, determined to get out one last ‘go to Hell’ if it kills him.

The Joker bends down and picks up the crowbar, cocks his head.

“You’re no fun tonight, Jay-bird.”

For once, his brain has no comment, preferring instead to scream **NOBODY’S COMING YOU’RE GOING TO DIE**.

“Oh, well.” The clown sounds regretful. “All good things must end…any last words for the Bat?”

Jason would like to say that he watches death coming. He would be lying-his eyes close of their own accord as the crowbar moves through the air-

-and doesn’t connect.

He takes a shuddering breath and peeks.

His apartment’s empty. No crowbar, no clown, and when he tries to move he finds his hands are free. The duct tape around his chest is gone.

He falls out of the chair, the impact sending waves of agony rippling up his body, and stays there for a minute before struggling up to turn on the lights and do a sweep.

Nothing. No sign of entry, no sign of anything. He ends up huddling in the bathroom, with its painfully bright lights and icy tile and no possible hiding places.

Okay. Okay. Just a dream, just a dream, he’s okay, he’s okay-

-no. No he’s not, he’s gonna be sick.

There’s nothing in him to come up, but he spends five minutes dry-heaving anyway, feeling his stomach try to find **something** to offer to the porcelain god. It is not successful and in the end he sinks to the floor, shivering and soaked in sweat.

Nobody comes (of course nobody comes, why would they?), and he hasn’t moved at all by the time the sun rises.

THE END


	4. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Jason hates it when his right arm takes enough abuse that he can’t sleep on that side.

Really, it’s a very practical thing, to sleep on the right. One, he’s not smushing any organs (that scared him as a kid, what a naïve kid he’d been!). Two, sleeping on his back inspires sleep paralysis, and it was bad enough watching the Joker advance on him when he’d been able to scream. Being mute and frozen, watching the clown skip towards him with a crowbar? Nah-uh. Three, sleeping on his stomach inspires nightmares of lying on Arkham’s cold floor, choking on his blood and **listening** to the clown skip towards him with a crowbar. Noticing a pattern yet? And four, sleeping on his left means he’s facing the wall, which means anybody and their mother could waltz in here. (He’s pretty sure that it’s lingering Robin-training that makes him need to sleep with his back to the wall.)

So he’s had a shit sleep as it is. Nobody can blame him for hoping whoever’s banging on his door dies in a fire.

Or at least drops their long-craved lasagna on the floor.

The banging continues and he turns his head and opens one eye. Who the hell…his rent’s paid, Bruce and co. would just break in, Alfred wouldn’t pound (and…yeah, he might just let himself in), any enemies who could have tracked him would just break in…

Okay, he’s really confused. And sore. And tired. But mostly confused.

“Boy, if you don’t open this door, I’m gettin’ the landlord!”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Mz. (yeah, with a ‘z’) Melinda May (Bates, but she doesn’t answer to Mz. Bates). Older than Jesus, born and raised a little ways outside of New Orleans, little scary. Y’know, in that…old-lady-way.

Well. At least last night’s mugging hadn’t scarred her for life. Doesn’t answer the question of ‘what do you want, it is…fuck…noon’.

She doesn’t seem to be inclined to leave, and he drags his ass outta bed, sheet sticking to his skin, and fumbles for a hoodie-she’ll ask about the cuts ‘n bruises ‘n scars, and he’s not willing to be open about those today.

“I’m comin’, hang on.”

The banging stops. He considers the worth-it-ness of ducking out the window and finding a new apartment and deems it…not that worth it.

“Uh, g’mornin’, Mz. May.”

She has a plate of cookies in her hands and a first-aid-kit tucked under her arm and flames in her eyes. What. What is she doing. Why is she here. Look, he’s all about cookies (hers are like, eighty percent butter, they’re delicious), but no way are they worth trying to beat down his door at this ungodly hour.

“Did I wake you?”

“Uh…” On one hand, **YES, DAMMIT** , but on the other hand, cookies.

“Oh, honey.” Okay. “Hold these.”

He takes the plate. Then she grabs his ear and marches him to his own chair.

“Hey-hey! What the hell!”

“Watch your mouth.” She takes the cookies back, sets them down, and scowls at him. At least, he thinks it’s a scowl. She’s got a road map of wrinkles, how’s he s’posed to tell? “So. Did you have a quiet night?”

“Yes?” He’s so confused. Is she mind-controlled? He doesn’t see any of the Hatter’s calling (heh) cards, but…okay, he really doesn’t want to knock her out. She’s old. And brings him food. If she attacks him first, he’ll worry about it.

“You are the worst liar.” What! It was quiet. For him. Y’know. “If you think I wouldn’t recognize your voice, even with that silly hood-” WHAT. “-then you are a disgrace.” Hey! “So. Let me see your arm.”

“Uh, Mz. Melinda? I don’t understand-”

“Now.”

He’d like to make it clear that he is not scared. Nothing scares him. (Well, almost nothing.) Funny thing, being the Joker’s favorite toy tends to make anything less than agonizing death utterly unimpressive. However, Mz. Melinda May could give Alfred a run for his money in the ‘I can read your mind, I don’t like what I see, don’t you sass me boy’ department. And that’s…unsettling.

“Jason.”

He sighs and unzips his hoodie, the **zzzrrr** noise grating against his eardrums.

“It’s fine.” he mumbles. “Just a scratch.”

With a knife. It happens.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He could-and should-manhandle her out the door, but he doesn’t really want to hurt her.

Also, he’s not at all sure she can’t kick his ass. Never underestimate determined old ladies.

“I’m fine-”

She quirks one gray eyebrow. Great. He’s doomed.

He shrugs the hoodie off and hunches forward-it’s outta habit, really it is.

“Sit up, you’ll ruin your spine.”

At this point, does it matter?

He sits up anyways and tries not to panic (it’s not panic, it’s not, it’s just…) when she leans over and probes around the knife wound.

“That was reckless.” she informs him, voice dripping with Elderly Disproval. “You should know better than to drop down, fists swinging.”

He does know better. He also knows better than to smoke, skip breakfast, and subsist solely on chili dogs, but that hasn’t stopped him yet. Besides, he didn’t have time to snipe. No way was he shooting his cookie train by accident, and with the closeness, that was a possibility.

“Um-”

“Did you at least douse it with alcohol?”

“Yes.” He’s not a complete idiot, thanks. He has ideas of where that knife has been, and none of them are ‘stored in a sanitary location until the exact moment of use’. “I’m fine, I’ve had worse-”

“I’m noticing.”

Yeah, pretty hard to miss, unless you’re legally blind. And maybe not even then, what does he know?

“Doesn’t need stitches…” she’s mumbling, and he has to wonder how she knows. She’s right, it doesn’t, but…she’s **old**. Crotchety and scary, yeah, but old.

It occurs to him that he has no idea what she did for a living. Married (and buried) three husbands, but other than that? Huh.

“You idiot.” she says at last, cuffing him gently round the head. “The youth, thinking they’re invincible, I swear…” He knows he’s not. “Eat those, sugar’ll perk you up.”

He has no faith whatsoever that she won’t shove one down his throat if he refuses.

Because it’s **early** , and he’s had no coffee, his hands shake and the cling wrap (cling wrap is a sorry bastard, whoever came up with it should be shot) gives him trouble. Eventually, though, he manages to get it off the plate. Mm. Chocolate chip.

Once he’s got one in his mouth, he pulls his hoodie back on. Mz. Melinda May (god, what a mouthful, would she respond to Triple-M?) eyes him.

“You be gentle with that arm.” she says sternly. “If I come back here and you’re pushing it…”

She trails off ominously. He swallows and points out, “I’ve had worse.”

“Clearly.” she grumbles, and he doesn’t need to track her eyes to know she’s looking at the **J** under his eye. “That doesn’t mean you can ignore it.”

“M’not.” When she raises one white eyebrow, he takes another cookie. “S’not that bad.”

“Hm.” She straightens up. “You can bring my plate back later. And I mean it-if I catch you pushing that arm, we’ll be having a long talk.”

He nods and hopes she doesn’t go in for a hug or anything.

He’s lucky in that respect, anyway. Once she’s gone and his door is locked, he throws the cookies in some foil (the cling wrap is beyond repair) and goes back to bed.

Mm. Now his apartment smells like cookies. He can’t complain.

THE END


	5. Take Me Down

AN: Title and inspiration from The Pretty Reckless song of the same name.

This should be about the last of the exploratory pieces-think I’m about ready to take our boy out for a drive, with a plot ‘n all!

**Great.**

It’ll be fun!

**I’ve seen what you think is fun.**

There could be a dinosaur.

**THAT’S NOT FUCKING FUN.**

Shh, shh. Not like you have a choice.

**Great. I’ve been kidnapped by a psycho. AGAIN.**

He walked in here on his own, pay him no mind.

* * *

Sometimes, when he’s crouched on a rooftop, trying to catch his breath and make sure he’s not bleeding out on some nice (or not so nice) family’s house, Jason wonders if he sold his soul by accident.

Possible? Probably not. But maybe trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile was a Bad Idea after all. (Though, really, Bruce, it’s the fucking Narrows, how was he the first to have the balls to go for it?) Maybe stealing the tires was some sort of fist-bump with Satan that meant, ‘sure, kid, go nuts’.

Seriously, he should not be breathing. At this point, a good chunk of Gotham’s underworld, **plus** the police, would be awful happy to have his helmet on their wall and his body either incinerated or stuffed, like Penguin used to do. And they’ve tried. Hell, even some mousy secretary pulled out a goddamn shotgun last night. Nearly hit him-forgive him for thinking the girl with coke-bottle glasses and a wrist brace was at least mostly harmless.

But here he is, mostly unharmed (but that might be a bruised rib, that’s gonna be fun in the morning) despite it all. The Joker was a trial by fire, and now? Bring it the fuck on.

But not you, Secretary. You keep your shotgun to yourself, thanks.

He lights a cigarette and turns his attention to the balcony below. Nobody’s home, far as he can tell, which means he can take a breather and plan out where he needs to go from here. There’s nothing major going down tonight, as far as he knows, and, really, crime’s been down. Though that could be because it’s summer, and therefore muggy and miserable. Nobody’s motivated to do **anything** , criminal or otherwise.

He finishes his cigarette, puts his helmet back on, and is just about to leave when a child asks, “Are you Santa?”

JESUS CHRIST-

Somebody was home after all. What is she, like six? Are her parents home? Her parents better be home, it is **late**.

“No, kid. Sorry.”

She squints at him.

“Then why’re you on the roof?”

“It’s faster to get home this way.” Where are her parents, and why haven’t they taught her not to talk to strangers? “Isn’t it past your bedtime, kiddo?”

She shrugs. Jason’s starting to suspect she’s home alone and **Jesus** , there are people who should not be breeding.

He takes the helmet back off. On one hand, she’s probably totally fine-she doesn’t seem freaked out or anything, so this clearly isn’t her first rodeo. On the other hand, she’s like six and it’s like midnight and what kind of irresponsible fuckers leave their six year-old alone (or suitably unattended) at this hour? Seriously? He’s been in that boat before and it’s only because he’d found a pocket knife at some point that nothing bad happened.

Well. Mostly. Nothing traumatizing and life-ruining, anyway. There was that one junkie that broke in looking for shit to steal, but…

“Are you sure you’re not Santa?”

“Trust me, kiddo, I’m not Santa. It’s July.”

“You could be checking up.”

“Santa’s asleep in July!”

“Maybe he woke up!”

Is he really having an argument about Santa in the summer. Really. This is his life now, apparently.

“He didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

Shit. He has learned a valuable lesson tonight-arguing with six year-olds is futile.

“Fu-udge ripple cone, kiddo…” She blinks accusingly at him. Whatever. That was totally a good catch. Gold star to him for not corrupting a small child. “Trust me. Santa’s asleep right now. But he’ll still know you’re up past your bedtime.”

“How.”

“Magic.” And that is his final answer, that’s how Santa works, he dares anyone to tell him otherwise. Triple. Dog. Dares. Them.

She deems that acceptable.

“Good night, fake Santa.”

“Night, kiddo.”

She shuffles back inside, yawning, and he makes himself comfortable-ish on the roof.

He doesn’t have long to wait-maybe fifteen minutes later, a woman walks tiredly up the sidewalk. He was going to give her an earful, scare her into being a less-shitty parent, but now that he’s actually seen her, that’s clearly not gonna happen. Woman’s a nurse, he can tell by the raggedy scrubs, and he’s willing to bet money that baby daddy’s not in the picture.

He makes a note of the area-may as well drop by now and then, make sure no one’s breaking in or anything-before putting his helmet on again and taking off.

THE END


	6. Plants

AN: And this, Jay-bird, is why you shouldn’t piss me off. I have the power to inflict great pain and suffering on you, and I will do it.

**This is bullshit.**

Life’s a bitch.

**Come on! Fanfic is for happiness. I WAS TORTURED. FOR OVER A YEAR. I deserve a hug or something.**

Yeah, well…you’re fun to put through the wringer. Sorry.

**I just…just once…**

I torture out of love, that’s all. Put that look away and run along.

**Writers are sadists.**

Yup! Now out you go.

* * *

Jason spends a lot of time regretting his life choices.

He thinks a lot of people do that, but theirs don’t get them into these sorts of situations.

Really, he should’ve left the Batmobile alone. Granted, he would have been in jail sooner or later, but leaving the Batmobile alone would have spared him so many things. Like this. Normal people-even normal criminals-run and hide from Ivy. His stupid ass? Bring out the bazooka.

He wasn’t going to, and before anybody gets any bright ideas, he’s not doing it out of sentimentality. He’s doing it because she started it, not because one of her vines threw Batman through a wall.

Really. That’s it. He doesn’t like it when carnivorous plants try to chase him down the street. Plants are **stationary** , they don’t use their roots as legs and run down the street.

Fucking Gotham.

He picks one off and watches green goop splatter against a wall. There’s a screech of rage from somewhere over…he has no idea, actually. Away.

Bruce-Batman-hasn’t reappeared, which is weird, because usually he just rises up like the Terminator and kicks someone in the face. It’s like he gains strength through beating the crap out of people.

Oh, well. Jason doesn’t care. He just doesn’t want to be tackled to the ground or worse-turn around to be faced with the Silent Guilt Trip that he’s been receiving lately.

If anybody should be running the guilt trip, it should be him. Since, y’know, he was **left in Arkham with the JOKER.** In case Batman’s forgotten that little tidbit.

He should mail him a ‘wish you were here!’ postcard with the asylum on it. Just because.

Movement catches his attention-another plant, this one crunching a car like that one from _Jumanji_. He steadies the bazooka and is just about to add to the green goop on the ground when a vine snakes around his boot and yanks him off his feet. The gun goes skidding across the rooftop as his helmet cracks against the cement-well, that’s gonna leave some marks-and he’s pulled upwards by his ankle.

“Son of a bitch!”

He flails, manages to get one of his knives, and slashes furiously at the vine. It screams-how can plants scream? How?-and drops him. Before he hits the ground, it wraps around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

Oh, boy. This is gonna be bad.

The vine whips downwards, the speed making him dizzy, and comes to a stop a little ways down the street. Whoa…he’s good, he’s good, he’s not gonna puke in his helmet. (Made that mistake once before. Never, **ever** again will he touch that taco truck on Thirty-Ninth street.)

“You.” Aw, crap. “You did this.”

A vine lifts Ivy towards him and she scowls.

“Uh…not all of it?”

Her eyes narrow and the vine wrapped around him shakes him like a soda can. Not gonna be sick, not gonna be sick…

The one thing he really does appreciate about Ivy is that she’s not chatty. Well, she can be, but she multitasks. Like now.

His vine winds up and he has time to think **oh shit** before it hurls him into the nearest building. Ivy follows, hissing what he’s sure are creative punishments for hurting her damn plants. At the moment, he doesn’t care. Things hurt and he’s had about enough greenery for one day. After this, he’s going home and making a stir-fry, with e **xtra** vegetables.

The vine swoops in for another grab and he ducks, lashes out with the knife. Hits it too-it recoils and his blade is left dripping green.

It’s…actually really creepy. Nng.

“ENOUGH!”

Uh-oh.

Ivy makes an angry gesture and the ground rumbles and cracks. A second later, something green erupts through the cement, coiling around his legs and moving swiftly upwards. Stabbing at it only snaps the knife’s blade from the handle.

The vine comes to a stop just under his chin, coiled a little too tightly around his neck for comfort. Okay. There’s a way out of this, he just has to…come up with it.

Ivy saunters towards him, a smirk on her lips, and raps gently on his helmet.

“Knock-knock.”

It’s a shame this thing isn’t more expressive. He’d like her to see his scowl. This scowl, right now? This out-Batmans **Batman’s** scowl, and it’s a shame nobody can see it.

“Fuck off.”

She pats the top of his head and he tries to squirm her off. He’s not successful, and the vine tightens a little bit more around his chest.

“Oh, now, is that any way to talk to a lady?”

“Why, is there one around?”

Cheap cliché? Yeah. Effective? Yup. Ivy withdraws her hand like she’s been burned and the vine tightens to a decidedly painful degree.

Ow.

He’s frantically trying to come up with an idea when there’s movement nearby. Ivy turns and the vine loosens **just** enough for him to wiggle a gun free from its holster against his thigh.

The bullet does what the knife couldn’t-slices through the vine in a trail of green gook. It recoils, hissing (Christ, that’s **creepy** , plants are s’posed to be **quiet** ) and he sprints for the relative safety of a nearby alley.

He’s almost made it when the vine darts after him, plowing through cars and knocking a fire hydrant into the air in a burst of water. He dodges the initial attempt at a grab, shooting wildly.

The vine darts forward and slaps him into a dumpster. There’s a pain in his stomach, but he ignores it in favor of scrambling behind the dumpster and drawing another gun.

The vine rears back at the gunfire. Before he can get something bigger, the thing withers and there’s the sound of Ivy screaming.

Well. Batman apparently has this well under control. He’ll just collect his bazooka and get the hell outta here before Batman comes to either thank him (that’ll be the day) or drag him to prison (possible) or try to guilt him into coming ‘home’ (likely).

He grabs his gun and gets out, takes the most convoluted way home he knows. It’s only later, when he’s peeling off the layers of fabric and armor, that he notices the gash in his uniform and remembers the plant.

Damn. Must’ve been a good hit, to tear through everything.

Yeah, it was, he finds out a minute later-damn thing left a nasty cut in his stomach. Humph. Shame he didn’t get a chance to set it on fire.

Oh, well. All things considered, it could have been worse. Yeah, there’s bruising, but he remembers, once, being eaten by what appeared to be a large Venus Fly Trap, which had only spat him back out when Batman cut the…head bit…off. He’d been covered in yellow bile and bite marks.

Ugh. He still remembers how it smelled-like death and decay.

Never mind. That didn’t happen today (and, really, he’s had worse by now anyway), so **stop it**.

He eases himself to the shower floor and takes a closer look. The cut’s long-ish, yeah, but it’s pretty shallow. No stitches required, just-what’s that?

He pulls the tweezers from the first aid kit and tugs at the white dot. It’s definitely **something** -it comes out easy enough-but it takes him a minute to realize it’s a plant seed.

Okay, that’s just gross. There is no other word for it.

He drops it in the soap dish for now and takes a closer look. No way is he letting himself become an incubator for Ivy’s plants. Firstly, ew, no, and secondly, he’s sure they won’t just become little pink flowers that don’t do anything to him.

Wait, wait, he saw it-there. Blech.

He’s maybe a little overzealous about disinfecting it-it’s certainly hurting when he’s done-but better safe than sorry. He drops the seeds in an empty shampoo bottle rescued from the recycling bin, enjoys a hot shower, and collapses into bed for a well-earned sleep.

His dreams are warped, kaleidoscope-esque things. He catches snippets of falling, of vines clawing their way up his throat and through his lips, and Ivy tucking him into a bed of soil.

At some point, he rolls onto his stomach and the sudden pain wakes him. It’s raining and his first thought is, **plants like rain**.

There’s no vines erupting out of him (obviously), but he still gets up and shuffles into the bathroom, with its blessedly harsh lights.

He looks like death. He’ll admit that (but anybody else can shut the fuck up). Partly it’s the lights, but partly he really is pale, the **J** standing out in sharper relief than usual. He ignores that with an effort, checking his eyes to make sure they’re not, like…plant-green or anything.

Nothing. And no flowers are sprouting from the gash, either. It’s a little red from being rolled on, but that’s all.

Nothing. Is. Wrong.

All the same, he downs two glasses of water before going back to bed and pressing his back against the wall. He’s **exhausted**. What time is it, anyway?

Doesn’t matter. S’time for sleep, and he’s not answering the door for anybody other than the Girl Scouts. (When are they gonna come by? He wants Tagalongs.)

Shivering, he tugs the sheet up to his shoulders and listens to the muffled noises of his neighbors’ lives. Somebody’s watching TV, somebody else is trying to get their kid to ‘eat, not throw!’, and somebody’s cursing out the shitty elevator. Heh. It worked for a whole week, that’s amazing.

At some point or another, he drifts back into an uneasy sleep. This time, he dreams of vines splitting him apart as they grow.

THE END


	7. In Which Our Hero Has an Unpleasant Realization

AN: **Understatement of the YEAR.**

Sucks to be you!

**I’m noticing. I’d say kill me now, but…**

Yeah, don’t encourage them. Fans got you killed last time.

**…too. Fucking. Soon.**

I’m totally going to Fandom Hell. Anyways, continuation of ‘Plants’, written by accident.

Comment at your own risk-there is a very good chance that you’ll get Jay-bird on the line, and he’s not very happy right now.

**I have an excuse! This is your fault. You did this to me. What the hell is wrong with you? Couldn’t you have stuck with Crane? Crane deserves whatever he’s got coming, I didn’t do jack! Bullshit. This is bullshit, all of it.**

* * *

Something’s wrong, Jason thinks, staring hazily at the ceiling. Partly it’s because he can’t sleep on his side, and is therefore tired and grouchy, but partly…hnng.

Where was he going with that again?

Wrong. Feeling wrong…water. That’s it. He can’t drink enough water to save his life and he doesn’t understand why. His nightstand is **covered** in glasses and a couple of thermoses, all of them empty. Things are fuzzy, too, swimming lazily above his eyes like sluggish fish.

He shakes the nearest thermos half-heartedly, hears nothing, and drags his aching body out of bed. Grabs a few glasses, since he’s up ‘n all, and shuffles to the sink.

A voice in the back of his head-sounds a little like Bruce’s (and therefore must be ignored at all costs) says that with all the water he’s drinking, he should be on first-name-terms with his toilet by now, so why isn’t he?

Don’t know, don’t care, he decides, slumping against the cold counter. Things have been so foggy lately (what day is it), maybe he **is** on first-name-terms and just can’t remember. Which would be worrying if he weren’t so tired.

Water flows over his fingers and he shuts the sink off, drains the glass in his hand, and refills it. Then, carefully, he gathers up his new water supply and makes his way back to bed.

Why’s it so c-c-cold? Was it cold last night? (Is it still last night?)

It’s impossible to get comfortable but he tries anyway, ends up scrunched uncomfortably in some middle ground between side-sleeping and back-sleeping. Humans aren’t supposed to sleep this way, but humans aren’t s’posed to…to…

Fuck it. Thinking’s hard.

He shivers and pulls the sheet up, but it doesn’t help.

Shower. He wants a shower, he wants a…

Nngh. He doesn’t wanna get up. But now that he’s thought about it, the only thing he can concentrate on is **shower**.

He sighs, shoves the sheet back down, and takes a thermos with him.

The lights hurt but s’all right, the shower curtain blocks out the worst of it. He cranks the water up as hot as it’ll go and sits beneath the spray, feeling the weak pounding on his head. Feels good. Best thing he’s felt since…

Uh…

Doesn’t matter.

He slumps against the wall and breathes deeply, feeling his ribs protest a little at the movement. He’s let himself get stiff, he needs to move, but he honestly doesn’t think he can stand for more than a few minutes right now.

Next thing he knows, the water’s fucking cold and he’s wrapped his arms around himself to try and stop shivering. F-f-fuck, how long has he been in here? What happened?

He shuts off the water. Think. He needs to think this through logically and-and carefully, and…

He needs to go back to bed and think it through there. Maybe he just zoned out. Yeah, that’s all. Happens to everyone.

His stomach hurts-no. Not stomach, injury. From Ivy’s plants. He hopes said plants burned horribly, this hurts like a **mother**.

He glances at it. S’red, probably from the shower steam, and he prods around it. Feels okay. No abnormal heat or anything horrible. A little itchy, but that’s normal.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Everything’s fine. He took some hits, that’s all. It’s great that Batman can punch away his injuries, but the rest of them actually need downtime. So there.

Feeling a little more clearheaded, he pulls on sweats and wanders back to bed, snagging a Wal-Greens blanket off the couch on the way.

 **Christ** , it’s cold out here! Is the heater out again? You know what, fuck it, probably, he’s just gonna curl up and try to ignore it. It’s not as cold as Arkham, which means it’s fine.

Well. ‘Curl up’ isn’t quite possible, but he finds a position that might not trigger nightmares and isn’t too hideously uncomfortable and hopes for the best.

He wakes up on his back, but he can still move. Doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, which is probably good, but he glances at the slice across his stomach anyway. Still red. Still itchy. And he’s really, really thirsty, what the hell-

He drains the nearest glass and falls back, blinking irritably at the light sneaking through the curtains.

His fingers brush against the gash-ow-and he’s just moving them away when-

-what is that. Feels almost like a pointy pimple, the hard ones that look like they should pop but don’t.

He props himself up and looks harder. His skin’s shaking and he tries to hold his breath. The shaking stops.

Just an awkward angle, apparently. He sinks back down, breath leaving him in a shaky gasp, and fumbles for a full water glass. Wonders if the water’s hot again, half-wishes (and reminds himself to **stop it now** ) that somebody, anybody, would drop by. S’too quiet in here. But quiet’s better than laughter, so suck it up.

He’s always been pretty good at sucking it up, and he’s out cold ten minutes later.

* * *

**Wake**

**Wake up**

**Can’t fucking breathe wake the fuck up-**

He pulls his face out of the pillow, gasping through cracked lips. S’okay. He’s okay. Everything’s fine was just a dream everything’s **fine**.

He rolls over, feels things crack. His head hurts.

He flails for a water bottle and comes up with a semi-heavy one. It tastes stale and kinda warm, but it’s better than nothing. Hazily, he envisions his dry lips magically becoming un-dry, like the bomb flowers in that one _Zelda_ game.

The ceiling sways gently above him and it feels like his body’s pulsing. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself as a cartoon speaker, **thudding** like a heart.

It’s creepy.

The pulsing is coming from his stomach, and with his eyes closed like this his mind can point out that hey, it kinda feels like something burrowed in there, seen any bugs lately?

He brushes his fingers against the injury and jerks himself awake when they brush something thin and antennae-like. Just a hair, that’s all… of course nothing burrowed in there, he’d wake up. Ridiculous.

Whoo. That kind of panic is better than coffee at waking a guy up. With his heart pounding in his ears, he struggles up with the honest intent to get some breakfast (or whatever) and go get the mail.

What happens instead is that he’s half out of bed when his vision just **drops** , goes straight black, and his stomach threatens to expel everything he’s ever put in it if he doesn’t go back down **now**.

He goes back down, his breath coming in harsh pants, and watches the world bleed back together like a Disney watercolor opener. Okay. Okay, he’s okay, just hasn’t eaten in too long, he’ll just take a few deep breaths and try again.

One.

Two.

Three.

**Get up.**

He pushes himself up and stumbles blindly towards the kitchen, but he gets maybe five steps before his legs give out and dump him on the floor, dead to the world.

THE END


	8. Down, Down, Down We Go (Repetitive Piano)

AN: Wow, this is growing more than I meant it to! Oops.

**Why. Why me.**

Aww, you know I do it out of love.

**…uh-huh.**

Shh, shh, not too much more of this, I promise. Recommended mood music: ‘Rev. 22:20’ from Puscifer.

* * *

Jason comes to, a little, still facedown on his floor. Things aren’t…the floor is moving. Isn’t it?

He forces himself onto his back. The floor is moving but the ceiling isn’t and he’s confused.

Confusion gives way to the dim understanding that the floor isn’t moving either, he’s just shaking. That’s…that’s not any better, not any better…

**Focus.**

Okay. Okay, he’d gotten up…food, he was gonna get food, and then he sort of…biffed it. He reaches up to check for goose eggs, finds none (it’s something), and drags himself to the nearest wall to sit up.

Sitting up is a poor choice. It makes his vision go dark again and he ends up slumped, head between his knees, trying to convince his stomach that puking is a bad idea.

What the hell happened?

He’s gonna be sick.

It’s only because he knows where everything is that he doesn’t trip in his shivery rush to the toilet. Nothing but bile comes up, hot and watery against his throat and mouth, and eventually he ends up with his head resting against the cold porcelain. Doesn’t feel cold to him. Doesn’t feel like anything.

Next thing he knows, he’s curled up on the shoddy rug, looking at the glue-traps under the sink. The last tenant left the empty ones there-well, mostly empty, one in the back’s got a roach on it. He can sorta make out the antennae.

Shower. Shower helped before, shower can help now.

He slithers into it, reaches up to turn the water on, and huddles under the spray. It’s almost straight hot, he knows it is, but it just feels like static. Or he feels like static, pins ‘n needles, needles ‘n thread, hey Macarena.

Shit. Forgot to remove sweats, that’s gonna be fun.

He pries them off, shoves the wet clump out of the shower to deal with later, and closes his eyes to the spray.

* * *

_Shhh, darling…let it happen, it won’t hurt unless you make it…_

**Squirming and twitching and moving around his organs up his throat can’t breathe can’t BREATHE-**

Bed.

Why’s…how’d…

Bed.

He remembers.

He remembers the shower. ‘Members closing his eyes ‘cause it was bright. But now he’s in bed and he doesn’t…

Ivy? Ivy was here…no, that was a dream…

He looks anyway, even though moving his head hurts and makes things move that shouldn’t move. No Ivy.

No one at all.

He can still feel imaginary green fingers along his jaw and he lifts a tired arm to scrub at his skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice that he thinks might be Common Sense (hey, s’been a while, where’ve you been?) screams **SOMETHING’S WRONG.**

Common Sense can fuck off. He’s fine. Just fine, just a little tired or somethin’, little stiff.

He straightens his head and neck, hears more than feels something crack, and looks at the crack of light slipping in through the drapes.

If he closes his eyes, the sensation of fingers on his face comes back. If he keeps them closed, he can fool himself into enjoying them. Well, until he remembers that A) no one’s here and B) the fingers in his dream (dream?) belonged to Ivy. Not good.

He pulls away and tries to rouse himself. Everything’s blurry, like he’s still dreaming, and breathing has become a manual activity.

S’okay. S’okay, sleep will fix this.

Common Sense points out that he doesn’t even know what day it is, sleep is clearly not helping. The imaginary fingers return, running easily through his hair and wordlessly promising that sleep will help.

The fingers are right, he decides. Besides, they’re not…Ivy isn’t here…ev’rything’s gonna be fine.

Maybe he’s still asleep, anyway.

He shivers and reaches for the blanket, convinced he’s gotten it off, and finds it still tucked around his shoulders.

_Shh…_

Something rustles, probably just the blinds but maybe not. He should check. Bruce would yell at him for not checking, lecture…lecture ‘bout ‘minding surroundings’ and all that bullshit.

Bruce can fuck off, too. Maybe he and Common Sense can open a bar together, call it ‘The Paranoid Bastards’ or somethin’. Heh. That’s funny. Sort of.

The fingers pull back and he whines, cracks an eye open. No one’s there. Of course no one’s there, no one’s ever there.

Still stings. Even his imagination abandons him. What’s that say about him, he wonders.

Misery curls around his stomach in hot tendrils and he closes his eyes again, fingers a snag in the blanket and pretends there’s a leak in the ceiling that just so happens to be above his face.

_Shh…just let it happen…_

The fingers return, still gentle, and he presses into them. Don’t leave, please don’t leave…

_Go back to sleep._

There, see? Sleep’ll help. The fingers say so.

They stay this time, moving along his head in a steady rhythm (Alfred used to do that sometimes), and even though the misery-tendrils don’t ease up, Jason lets himself fall back asleep.

THE END


	9. First Aid

AN: Okay, so this was not intended, but the little fucker decided to spend ALL. DAMN. DAY belting out ‘Cell Block Tango’.

**Oh, did it bug you? It bugged me when YOU FUCKED WITH MY COFFEE, SADIST.**

So this had to happen. As punishment.

**Bite me.**

Keep with the attitude and I’ll have Croc bite you.

**Look at me, quaking in fear. Anything but that. Please. Spare me.**

Continuation of ‘Plants’ and co., but was written first. Sorry, hon, if you’d asked, you could’ve been warned that I do _love_ to torture characters that come into my care.  >-)

* * *

Mz. Melinda May (last name of Bates, but that throws everythin’ off and she won’t respond to it) knows what her stupid neighbor does at night. Bless his heart, he’s trying, but really, that boy has the subtlety of a seagull snatching an ice cream cone.

Also, if he thought she wouldn’t recognize his voice, mask or not, he’s a damned idiot. She told him so, and it’s telling that he didn’t exactly deny it.

She raps on his door for the third time in as many minutes, ignoring the steadily growing feeling of concern. She doesn’t see him every day, but it’s been a week now and that’s a little unusual.

When he doesn’t answer, she hobbles back to her apartment and hunts up her knitting needles. She’s been out of the business for years, but there was a time that she could have taught Catwoman a thing or three.

Ohh…these old knees don’t much like gettin’ down to lock-pickin’ level, but too bad.

It takes a few minutes (too slow, damn old age!) to get the door open, but get it she does. It swings open with a creak (she suspects it’s intentional, a heads-up of entry) and she pokes her head in.

“Jason?”

No answer. A little strange. Maybe he’s out. Maybe he left. (Or got arrested. Or died in an alley.)

“You here, child?”

Still nothing, and she steps inside. The place is dim and stale, a little humid, like the shower’s been running, but she doesn’t hear water. She adjusts her grip on her knitting needles, prepared to aim for an eyeball if she has to, and shuts the door.

“Jason!” She throws a little steel into her voice. “You answer me right now!”

No answer. That’s bad.

He’s lying facedown on the bed, sheet and drugstore blanket bunched around his ribs. She flicks on the lamp, suddenly worried that she’s let herself in to find him _dead_ , and shoves him over. He’s a dead weight, and warm-even factoring in her vampire hands. Doesn’t respond, either, which is a little more worrying, but he’s breathing.

“C’mon, darlin’, open your eyes.” She pats his cheek a few times. “Jason.”

His only response is to shiver, arms curling protectively around his stomach. Hm.

“What’d you get yourself into this time?” she demands to know. When he doesn’t answer (surprise, surprise) she pries his arms away.

The gash decorating his belly is angry red and ragged, and when she prods around it it’s hot to the touch. She’s expecting pus to come out of it, but nothing does. Really, apart from the redness, it doesn’t look that bad. Not bad enough for him to be unresponsive like this.

She rustles up a washcloth (black, she’s sure it’s to hide the stains) and drenches it in warm water.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He does react, at last, when she dabs at it with the washcloth-his eyes open halfway and he chokes out, “Hurts, please-”

“Shh, shh, darlin’, I gotta get this cleaned up.”

“No-”

“Yes.” She reaches over and tousles his hair. “Just lie quiet, it’ll be over in a minute.”

“Too cold.” he murmurs, eyes slipping shut. “S’too cold, please…stoppit…”

She draws the cloth back to go wring it out and spots…something. It’s white, almost like bone, and for one awful minute she thinks he’s gotten bone shard-his or someone else’s-in there. But then the white thing moves.

She watches in horrified fascination as it wriggles up, squirming its way through blood and tissue. Maggot? Christ, no, surely not…no, there’s no ribbing. It’s too smooth, too thin, and when it catches the light she can see it’s got a green sheen.

 _“Shit.”_ she hisses, and it freezes. Jason tries to pull an arm back over his stomach and she grips his wrist. “Don’t do that, honey, I’m gonna get you cleaned up.”

It’s a toss-up as to whether he hears her or simply can’t struggle, but he stops moving. The thing in the cut stays where it is and it’s an effort to take her eyes off it. It’s comin’ out, whatever the hell it is, whether it wants to or not.

“Just lie still.” she says, trying not to scare him. “Just lie still, darlin’, everything’s gonna be fine now.”

She finds tweezers in the first-aid kit and boils them anyway. Better safe than sorry.

“Okay, darlin’, let’s get this outta you.”

His breathing’s too forced for it to be anything but deliberate, but he’s still motionless, eyes closed. Hopefully he won’t remember any of this.

“Just hold still.”

Grabbing the thing isn’t hard-a quick strike down, like a bird-but the second the tweezers close on it, it starts squirming in earnest, its struggles making the tweezers move a little more than they ought to. It doesn’t wanna come up and out, either.

“Please…”

“Shh.”

The thing’s hard and slick-though at this point it’s just as likely to be slick with blood as anything else-and it’s hard to keep her grip. It _is_ comin’, though, slowly but surely.

She finally works it out most of the way, but it just isn’t…it’s almost like it’s stuck…

_Got it!_

It comes out, all right, and she nearly drops it. It’s a…plant bulb, with bloody roots dangling from the end. It’s not big, maybe half an inch long, but _Jesus_ it was _growing_ what on _earth_?

It’s still twitching, but nowhere near as much as it was, and she drops it in an empty water bottle. Jason whimpers, once, and goes still.

She stares at the bulb for another few seconds before throwing the tweezers in the pot and turning the stove back on. Christ, this city…it was never like this before. Never.

Her throat works and her stomach clenches and she bends over the sink, gagging and spitting bile. Bullets she can do, but _that_ …she’ll never forget that, not ‘til her dying day.

Once she gets herself under control and rinses her mouth out, she gets a clean washcloth and goes back to the bed. Jason hasn’t moved again, and this time the washcloth doesn’t rouse him.

The bulb is moving in the bottle, twitching like a worm, and she checks the lid more than once. The roots are makin’ a _scrit-scrit_ noise against the plastic that’s up there with nails-on-chalkboard for Awful Noises. What the hell’s she supposed to do with it? Throw it out? Send it to the government? (That’s a joke, they don’t touch anything from Gotham.)

She puts a band-aid on the cut-it’s what she could find, and it really wasn’t that deep-and draws the sheet back up to his shoulders.

“There we go.”

He stays silent.

* * *

She makes herself comfortable on the sofa, where she can keep an eye on him. He stays out for the better part of the day, waking a few times to be sick into a bucket she found under the sink. Other than that, though, he’s as still as the dead.

He stirs at last a little after moonrise. The bulb’s finally quit twitchin’ in the bottle and she’s grateful-the _scrit-scrit_ was unsettling.

“Wh-wha…?”

She drags her old bones off the sofa. How lucid he is is up for debate, but he’s not throwing up or panicking.

“How you feelin’, honey?”

He blinks a few times, face creased, and rasps, “M-Mz. May?”

“Hey there.” She turns his bedside lamp on. “You awake this time?”

“Huh?”

“You gave me a fright.”

“S-sorry…”

She pats his cheek.

“Don’t do it again.” Deeming him appropriately chastised for the moment, she straightens up. “Think you can keep some water down?”

He nods, a little hesitant, and mumbles, “I can get it…”

“You stay right where you are.” That voice, she thinks, could stop the Batman himself. It works on Jason, anyhow-he doesn’t move except to crack a knuckle. “You’ll get arthritis if you do that.”

He doesn’t answer.

When she comes back, he’s holding the water bottle with the bulb in it, its roots still tinged with blood and the rest of it covered with a green sheen.

“I fished that outta the gash in your belly.” she informs him. “It’s stopped movin’, finally.”

“Moving?”

“Mm.” She gets her hand under his head. “Little sip.”

“I can do it…”

“Don’t you sass me.”

He shuts up and takes a sip. She gives him a minute to make sure it goes down before letting him take another one.

“What’d you get into, boy?”

“S’complicated.” He shivers and squirms under his sheet. “S-sorry for worrying you, I didn’t…”

“What is this?” she demands, pointing at the water bottle. “I pulled that out, I got the right to know.”

“S-s-seed.” He swallows and she lets him have another sip of water. “Thought I got ‘em all out.”

“There were more?”

He nods weakly.

“Just two others, they didn’t…do that.”

Take root? Move? He needs to be more specific.

She’ll let it slide for now, she decides-he looks awful and quite frankly, she’s not sure he’s all there.

“Go on back to sleep.” she says gruffly. “It’s been a day.”

His only response is a tired sigh.

She returns to the couch, and when she peeks over later, he’s curled up on his side, sheet wadded around his shoulders. She gets back up, straightens it out, and fishes the cheap throw out from behind him. There.

Once she’s satisfied that he isn’t going to wake up for a while, she leaves him a note saying that she’s gone home, but will check in tomorrow.

The bulb moves again, weakly, when she props the note against a neighboring cup and on impulse she grabs the bottle and sets it on the kitchen counter. Just in case it…gets out.

The _scrit-scrit_ follows her to the door.

THE END


	10. Do It For the Vine

AN: **I didn’t do it for the vine. But it was trending on Twitter for three hours! #BAMF #Donttrythisathome #ScrewuBatman**

You are not an adult.

**I’m a fun adult.**

If the Bat shows up at your flat, I’m not throwing out any plot devices to save you.

**What ‘if’? There is no ‘if’. He’s not coming. You never write him.**

Really? Pretty sure he’s just beat the crap out of the Riddler, so…

**Shit.**

* * *

Jason may regret a good chunk of his life choices, but his motorcycle is not one of them. It’s shiny and black and he **may** have done a little tinkering to get some more speed out of it.

That, and it looks damn cool when he skids to a stop in front of a serial rapist.

“What’s goin’ on here, man?”

He’s been lookin’ for this guy for a few weeks now-little shit got out of prison on ‘good behavior’ and went right back to his favorite hobby, but a little more carefully this time. Jason’s thought it over, and he’s still kinda debating. On one hand, death would get him out of the way, but he could traumatize the poor thing cowering in the alley. On the other hand, permanent crippling just makes him a drain, but…alley.

The guy pales, fingers fumbling with his buckle, and Jason can tell he’s gonna make a run for it.

**Not on my watch, motherfucker.**

He moves forward, kicking the guy’s legs from under him, and finally sees the-oh.

Any debate he’d been having has now been settled-that’s a kid, and he knows it really **is** a kid because he’s seen her around sometimes. Jessica Rachet, thirteen, sells paper flowers and those string doll keychains a few blocks over. She’s not crying, not anymore, but she isn’t moving, either.

“You okay, kiddo?” She nods, once, very decisive. “You need a ride home?”

She shakes her head at that and whispers, “Don’t.”

Kid was always too good for down here. All the same, he’s not a complete asshole, so he’ll settle for maiming.

But the scumbag on the ground doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.

“Stick to the streetlights!” he throws at her retreating back. “No fuckin’ shortcuts!”

Once she’s in a slightly more populated area (not that it matters much, but still), he drags his new friend a little further into the alley and slams him against the wall.

“You must be new.”

“Shit-”

“Lucky for you, that girl back there? Is a better person than you ‘n me, and she doesn’t want your blood on her conscience. Unlucky for you, you’ve still pissed me off.” Fucker tries to look away and earns a knee to the groin. “Look. At. Me.”

It’s not looking, exactly, because he’s trying to double over, but at least he’s not looking at the dumpster. His head is in the right direction. Jason will take it.

Actually, y’know what? He doesn’t feel like he’s getting his point across.

He grabs the guy, grapples up a few stories, and shoves him to the ground so his upper body’s dangling over the edge of the roof.

“Please!”

He puts a foot on his ribs and leans forward, feeling them strain under the weight.

“If I **ever** catch you in this neighborhood again, I’ll kill you. Got that?”

Crying. Fuckin’ figures, they always cry when **they’re** on the receiving end of hell.

All the same, he wants an answer, not blubbering, and he takes a hand, pries a couple’a fingers apart, and starts nicking at the webbing with his knife.

“Answer me!”

“Okay! Okay! Please-”

There, was that so hard?

(Kinda sad, though. He was still telling the clown to fuck a garbage disposal at this point.)

“Nice chat! Hope we don’t do it again.”

He picks him back up, looks at the distance from here to the dumpster, and deems the likelihood of survival to be decent.

(If he’s mistaken, well, Jessica does not need to know.)

“Wait, _wait_ -”

Jason breaks his knee kicking him off the roof. He hits the dumpster with an oh-so-satisfying **CRASH!** and lays there, screaming himself hoarse.

He calculated correctly. That’s almost a shame.

He goes back down, throws a, “You should’ve taken the stairs!” over his shoulder, and gets back on his bike.

Not two seconds later, there’s the familiar **VROOM** of the Batmobile.

“Oh, fuck me.”

He is not dealing with this tonight. He has been a good boy, nobody’s dead, but Batman will be if he pushes his luck.

The tank pulls up, thin beams of light reflecting off the bike, and Jason kicks it into gear.

The streets aren’t populated at this time of night, but that’s a double-edged sword-that fucking thing is a menace to cars, but with no cars to dodge…

He needs to get somewhere with people.

He yanks the bike onto the sidewalk and leans over the handlebars, willing it to go faster. Grates and loose stones rattle under the wheels and behind him, the Batmobile growls as it picks up the pace.

There! That side street doesn’t fit the damn tank, and it leads to people. Catch him now, jackass!

He darts across the road and down said side street, hears the Batmobile skid a little behind him. He’s got a minute or so at best before Batman figures out where he’s run to, and he intends to make it count.

It’s brighter down here, mostly because there’s a bar and two tattoo parlors that don’t actually do tattoos. There’s also a shit-ton of pedestrians, which Batman will now have to avoid hitting.

“What the hell-”

“Red Hood!”

“Jesus fuck!”

**VROOM!**

Crap. His minute’s over. Hopefully he’s got enough of a lead to reach the train tracks…there! There they are, come on, come on…

He’s almost to them when the bars go down. Now or never.

He jerks the bike sideways and into a skid, ducking under the bars and jumping across the tracks just as the train whistle blows.

**Yes!**

The train flies across the tracks behind him and he hears the tank skid to a stop before turning around. Jason stays where he is until the train-and the Batmobile-are gone and goes back across the tracks. Not bad.

His phone buzzes and he pauses, wondering what alert’s going off now, and digs it out.

Oh.

Somebody got footage-of course somebody got footage, everybody and their mother’s got their phone out and running these days. It’s not bad. A little gritty, little shaky, and it’s got what sounds like a teenage girl going, “Oh my gawd guys look at this!”

Wow, he can drive. Look at that! Fuckin’ professional skid, right there. He should give up the Red Hood gig and take up stunt driving, goddamn.

He tucks his phone back into his jacket, smirking a little now, and listens for the sound of Batman coming back. All is quiet.

Well, back to work.

THE END


	11. Unbecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Title and idea from the Starset song of the same name. I swear, I am the most mood whiplash-y person. I went from, ‘fucker crushed my car, Imma kick your fuckin’ ass, that was MINE and I might’ve hated it but I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD CRUSH IT’ to ‘I take back everything I said you poor baby c’mere and hug it out STOP SHOOTING AT MEEE’.
> 
> Sorry, Jason. You know I love ya to little bits, it’s just…I hurt things I love.

_Bruce’s comin’, he tells himself, even as the knife digs easily into the soft skin just under his jaw. It’s not all the way through, not yet, but he’s bleeding and it hurts but he’s comin’. He always comes._

_“Having fun, lamb chop?” The knife stills, tip itching in his skin-or maybe that’s the blood trickling out._

_All the same, he swallows and hisses, “Fuck a garbage disposal.”_

_The clown cackles, voice bouncing off the walls to make a chorus. Jason squeezes his lips together and tries not to move too much and mentally chants, **he’ll come. Bruce’ll come and kick this sorry fucker’s ass six ways to Sunday and I’ll probably be in deep shit for going off alone but he’ll come.**_

_Alfred won’t be mad. Alfred’ll be disappointed, because he **did** fuck up, but he’ll pat his shoulder and frown a little and then do the stress-bake that always ends with enough cookies to feed an army._

_Bruce’ll come. He always comes._

_Jason closes his eyes and tries to imagine the smell of chocolate chip cookies even as the knife keeps pressing upwards._

_* * *_

_Bruce’ll come. Bruce’ll come, and now Jason’ll bet the Joker ends up in a body cast ‘cause it’s been three months now (the Joker likes to remind him of this) and Bruce’ll be pissed as hell._

_“I’m running a science experiment!” the clown informs him. “I gotta know, for future reference, and my poor boys suffer enough on my behalf.”_

_Jason doesn’t like where this is going._

_He likes it even less when he sees what the Joker’s dragging behind him-a crowbar, black and sharp-edged. This is new._

_“What, how many inches you can shove up your-”_

_With speed most people don’t expect, the Joker lunges forward and the crowbar connects with his shoulder. The chair tips, dangerously, and Jason chokes on his words._

_“Whoops! Cluuumsy me.” Laughter bounces off the walls and Jason clenches his teeth. “So witty…no, no. Nothing so uncouth. No, I need to know which hurts more?” He adjusts his grip and Jason starts his mantra of **Bruce’ll come he won’t even be mad now he can’t be he’ll come**. “Forehand?”_

_Crushing pain explodes on his ribs and the wheelchair rolls backwards until it slams into the wall, jerking him against the restraints. The Joker skips forward._

_“Or backhand?”_

_* * *_

_Bruce isn’t coming._

_He isn’t coming because he’s replaced him, got someone new and better that won’t run off like an idiot._

_He isn’t coming._

_The Joker leans on the wheelchair, picture in hand, and rubs his head in what should be a soothing gesture but just makes Jason’s skin crawl._

_“He wouldn’t.” he forces through trembling lips, but he would. Jason’s Dick’s replacement, isn’t he? Not that Dick was stupid enough to get captured._

_“It’s been six months now, Jason. Isn’t it time to face the facts?”_

_Bruce might not be coming, but like hell is Jason going to give the Joker the satisfaction of saying so._

_“Screw you.”_

_He pays dearly for this. He doesn’t even have time to brace himself before the clown’s on him, knocking the wheelchair over and slamming his head into the tile._

_There’s no screaming, no scolding, only that hellish laughter, bouncing off the walls and worming into his ears even as yellow fingernails dig into the skin between his eyes and cheekbones._

_* * *_

_Can’t breathe…camera’s still runnin’ and the floor’s cold but he can’t feel his fingers and ev’rythin’ hurts and **I don’t wanna die.**_

_The whine of the camera stops abruptly and shoes appear in his darkening vision, stopping just short of the pool of blood engulfing the floor. S’warm and he knows it’s sick but he presses his fingers into it anyway._

_Hurts. This hurts and he takes back what he said he doesn’t hate Batman he wants…he wants…please, not down here, not like this…_

_But Bruce doesn’t come. Bruce doesn’t come he doesn’t come he’s not coming he’s left him here and replaced him like a broken lamp or somethin’ and **I don’t wanna die please-**_

_The Joker, ghastly white with that red gash for a mouth, bends over and grips his hair, lifting his head from the red heat lapping at it._

_“You’re **mine**.” he hisses, sounding saner than Jason’s ever heard him, no laughter to be found. “All mine, and we’re gonna have **such** fun!”_

_He couldn’t fight if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to because fighting brings agony and he doesn’t want to die but he doesn’t want this, please no more._

_It’s a struggle just to breathe, a struggle that only grows when the Joker drops his head. The jar makes him cough and there’s a sucking sound, more pain, and the sensation of trying to breathe in a plastic bag-desperate and tight and **unsuccessful.**_

_Eventually, he’s given mercy-his vision goes and a few minutes later, so does everything else._

_* * *_

Jason wakes, choking on nonexistent blood and unable to feel his fingers. That, at least, has an explanation-he fell asleep with his wrist in an awkward position and cut off the circulation.

He rolls over, shivering, and needs a cigarette like **yesterday**.

It’s cold outside-it’s winter in Gotham, of course it’s fuckin’ cold-and the smoke vanishes in the car lights below. Still dark, he got maybe an hour? Who knows, his clock’s off with the sun sleepin’ in.

He grips the shitty windowsill, feeling flaky paint rub against his palm, and clings to the not-Arkham-ness of it. No clowns. No laughter.

His cigarette burns down to a nub and he sighs. He’s not going back to sleep, and there’s no point in telling himself otherwise. All the same, he falls back onto his bed, turns the lamp on, and stares at the door.

He’d forgotten-or blocked out, more likely-just how hard it had been to breathe. He wishes it had stayed forgotten.

There’s a prick in his palm and he looks down to see that his nails are digging into it. He forces his hand to relax and, when it tries to ball up again, hangs it off the bed. That pans out for all of ten seconds before the (irrational, ridiculous, you’ve-gotta-be-kiddin’-here) fear of ‘Jokers under the bed’ wins out and he pulls it up. Shut up, it’s Gotham, sometimes there really are monsters down there. Joker’s been found in closets before. Once they found him hiding as a doll, a la _Poltergeist_.

He doesn’t need to be thinking about that right now. Head down that rabbit hole and never come back, have tea forever and ever until the Queen comes.

**Breathe. Breathe, you don’t even have any bruises for once, you can breathe.**

His lungs don’t want to expand and he puts his palm over them and wills them to stop being stupid.

He looks up at the ceiling, tracing cracks and resolutely not thinking about all the times he did this as a kid, picking out tigers and knights and dragons.

Not thinking about it works as well as it ever does-for shit-and he finally hauls himself out of bed. Fuck. Fuck, he’s tired, it’s over (it’ll never be over) and…

Fuck.

He hadn’t wanted to die. Like it fucking mattered in the end.

THE END


	12. This is How I Die

AN: **Worth it. If you…do…uh, find me dead in an alley, though, please cremate me and also PLEASE volunteer yourself as a Nightwing fashion consultant, because OH MY GOD he can’t be trusted. One of you go Barber Vigilante, maybe-swoop by and chop off bad ponytails or somethin’.-J.**

* * *

If asked, Jason has no idea whose safehouse this is. Safehouse? Whatever do you mean? It’s not just a random apartment?

The truth of the matter is, however, that he knows exactly where he is. Why Dick has anything in Gotham is beyond him, but oh well, Jason’s happy to borrow from it. Shut up, he’s just here for a glass of water, he’s not going to leave the Golden Boy bleeding out in the future from lack of bandages.

Yeah. Long story, Mr. Bloom was involved and he needs a drink like now.

He’s still pissed at the coffee contamination from a few months back, too, so while he’s here he’s going to see what can be done to pay the idiot back. Decaf…what the fuck, Dick, what if someone had broken in and his reflexes were dulled by the lack of caffeine and he’d been killed, huh? WHAT THEN? He bets there’d be guilt and crying and a fair bit of, ‘if only I hadn’t replaced the regular with decaf!’

So sue him, it’s a nice dream.

He glances at the window-no sign of anybody-and rifles through the fridge. Milk. Lotta milk. Lotta nothing else-wait what’s that?

Olive Garden? Somewhere, Alfred is weeping uncontrollably-BREADSTICKS.

The holy grail of all leftovers.

Jason draws the foil pocket from the fridge with something approaching reverence. Three. There’s three whole breadsticks in here, he has struck gold.

Dick might actually break the One Rule if he finds out what happened to his breadsticks. Is being murdered in alley worth it? On one hand, death. On the other hand, breadsticks.

Oh, choices…

He tries to put them back into the fridge, but his fingers refuse to let go and…well…clearly he needs them, then.

He vacates the premises-there’s no to just sit here and wait for death-clutching his prize like Gollum with the Ring.

He’s so going to that special circle of Hell meant for breadstick thieves.

THE END


	13. Crime Does Not Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: 'Been Caught Stealing' by Jane's Addiction. No, really, this is already 'oh my god', just roll with it.

AN: **Eh, technically it does, if you steal from drug dealers. Just sayin’.**

Don’t corrupt the readers.

**YOU’RE NOT MY MOM.**

Oh my god. Do you see what my life is like now? At least Dr. Crane just mutters death threats. I can’t even punish this asshole, because-

**Remember when I was literally dying on Arkham’s floor?**

I feel guilty.

**She lets me get away with murder!**

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit-”

Jason hasn’t moved this fast in…maybe ever. He jumps a gap between rooftops, hurtles over a grate, and wishes he’d written a will.

“HOOD! GET BACK HERE!”

“Fuck my life…”

Just a few more roofs before he gets back to his bike and-hopefully-salvation. Provided he doesn’t die before he reaches it.

He hadn’t intended for this. He’d been minding his own business for once-quiet night-when…well…

Apparently Dick Grayson holds grudges. Who knew. Really, though, he’d been enjoying a smoke break when a vaguely demonic voice had shouted, “YOU!” and the next thing he knew, fucking Nightwing was vaulting over buildings in his direction. Jason’d crammed his helmet on and taken off, narrowly avoiding a mullet-rang or whatever the fuck Dick was calling them. He doesn’t keep track. Dick names things about as well as he dresses without Alfred’s help. (Oh, the Discowing…why. Whyyyyy.)

“C’mon, it was last week!”

The only answer he gets is a snarl of rage. That can’t be good.

He jumps, lands on a fire escape, and skips levels on his way to the ground. Bike! Okay, he might be able to skip town now. Maybe the country. Mexico might be nice.

He guns it, already trying to remember where there’s the most traffic, when Nightwing drops down in front of him and forces him to stop or scratch his paint.

“Are you tryin’ to get run over?”

 **“Breadsticks.”** Dick seethes. “I know it was you.”

“What are you talking about?” He loves this helmet. Makes lying easier. “Look, I dunno what your problem is, but it’s hurtful that the first person you blame for shit goin’ wrong in your life is me.”

“You think I don’t have cameras?”

Oh.

Um.

Well, **shit.**

He changes tactics.

“Dick, Dick, don’t do somethin’ you’ll regret. ‘Member how sad you were when you thought I was dead?” Wait. “You…you **were** sad, right?”

The look he gets just **screams** , ‘you are dumber than a box of rocks’.

What? Bruce was happy to leave him there, he’s gotta ask.

“Jason-”

No nickname. That’s not good.

“Look.” Pathetic, Jason, pathetic. “When…when I was…away…sometimes he’d forget to feed me for a couple’a days.” Not a lie. The best tales have some truth. “And uh…this is gonna sound really stupid, but all I could think of when that happened was Olive Garden breadsticks. I know, weird thing to fixate on, but…yeah. There you go.”

For a minute he thinks he’s done it, played the Dick Grayson heartstrings like a violin. Then-

“Bullshit.”

No. No! What now? He’s out of ideas! Guilt trips always worked before! Taking his punishment like a man is out of the question, so…wait. It’s a last-ditch effort. It’s worked exactly once, on some idiot mook that had gotten the upper hand.

“Look! Batman!”

That doesn’t even get him a reply. Well. It…it was worth a try, right?

Well, Dick’s gonna have to move or get run over. Jason’s not staying here to be murdered over breadsticks.

The bike jumps forward and sure enough, Dick leaps to the side, screaming, “What the hell?”

Like **he’d** stay still to be murdered by Jason. Hypocrite.

“This isn’t over!”

They didn’t find him before, when he **wanted** to be found. Now? Good luck, sunshine!

“They were delicious!” he shouts over his shoulder, knowing he’ll pay for that one and not even caring. He’s busted, his days are numbered, he may as well enjoy what little time remains to him.

Y’know…there is one place that Dick won’t look right away…and maybe he’s got somethin’ else to eat. He could go for Lucky Charms.

Hey, at this point, it’s go big or go the fuck home.

THE END


	14. At the Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idea and title from the Brand New song of the same name.
> 
> Wow. This got…depressing. Part of me wants to apologize, part of me knows you’re all little angst ghouls because that’s how fandom works.

He left me. Y’know that? I’m the one he didn’t save.

Oh, I’m not the first, ‘n I’m not the last, but…still stings. World’s Greatest Detective, my ass. Pretty sure that’s Sherlock Holmes, and m’pretty sure he’d have found me. Watson would’ve nagged him.

But. Bruce didn’t come. I was **right there**. Literally, I could hear him sometimes, just a thin wall away, but he didn’t come. I wasn’t worth it, maybe? Nobody else ever thought I was worth a damn, I don’t know why I thought he’d be any different.

He said. Before, when he took me in, even though I tried to steal his tires and then tried to attack him (I was a kid and desperate, you don’t know what it’s like). But he said, he told me he’d always come.

S’not the first time I got caught. Rite of passage for Robins, being captured. Gettin’ the shit beat outta you by some guy twice your size. Gettin’ shot at-or shot outright. Lookin’ back, it’s not right, what he does. Finds the weak and the desperate, makes ‘em child soldiers. Tells ‘em to put their lives on the line for a scrap of affection and ‘the knowledge that you’re doing the right thing’. Lemme tell ya, the pay’s shit. Don’t do it.

But yeah, s’not the first time. And he said, the first time-god, I was so scared he was gonna kick me out or beat me into amnesia and **then** kick me out-he said, “Jay, I’ll **always** come for you.”

Fucking liar.

I screamed for him, y’know. At the beginning. First time he came to Arkham, after, he was so close, I swear to god I could hear his cape and I about screamed my throat bloody hopin’ he’d hear me. But he didn’t hear me or didn’t care and I heard him leave…

I wanted to die. I did. If I’d found a knife- **if** , Joker’s crazy, not stupid-I don’t…I don’t know if I would’ve tried to fight my way out or…slit my wrists. I really don’t know. I mean, yeah, I might’ve been able to take him, but…you don’t understand, he **does** things. Gets inside your head better than Scarecrow and **won’t leave**. He’s still there. I hear him, sometimes. At night, in quiet rooms. He doesn’t talk. Just laughs. Just laughs and rocks back and forth behind my eyelids like a wobbly-doll. Y’know, the ones that don’t topple over?

I don’t wanna die now. Most of the time. Don’t think I’d mind, though, if I went out savin’ someone else. That’s what heroics is, right? ‘Sides, not like my life matters that much. Better someone else get a shot to be a better person than me. To get outta Gotham, to get a chance to save the world.

I wouldn’t have…Joker asked. Who Batman was. I think he knew. I mean, he knew me-knew me in three days, when Bruce didn’t come and he started gettin’ the idea that he wasn’t gonna come. And you know one you know all, right? But yeah, took my mask off and…Bruce Wayne’s pet street kid’s pretty recognizable. So he knew, I know he knew, but he wanted it from me. I wouldn’t have. I wasn’t gonna…I was just gonna tell him some bullshit. A random name.

Being shot hurts.

It’s nothin’ personal, Bruce not comin’. I know that now. If it’s Gotham or his own, Gotham wins every time. He’d throw Alfred under the bus, I bet you money he would. Me? I got myself caught, I couldn’t get myself free. I’m not worth the effort, I know that.

But…but sometimes, when the room’s quiet and the Joker’s noisier than usual, I…I wish he’d come. Just once, put Gotham aside for me, keep his promise. S’that selfish? Think it is. Not too heroic, I guess. I can’t help it.

He won’t. He’s given up on me, I know he has. And that’s fine. I don’t want his help, I don’t **need** it. He…he’s not…I don’t hate him, anymore. But I don’t need him. I don’t.

But…when the day comes that he finds me dead or dying in some alley, I just…I don’t want him to leave me. Not again.

Please.

THE END


	15. Everybody Wants to Rule the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dove Marquis is mine-find her in March of the Penguin. She’s like, the least violent person in Gotham, I swear. This takes place maybe six, seven months before Jason tries to jack the Batmobile’s tires-so he’s still tiny and adorable :p
> 
> Title and idea from the Lorde song of the same name. Warning for vague mentions of child prostitution.

Jason’s cold.

He’s been cold, and wet, for most of the day, s’just that now it’s dark and the bricks he’d huddled up to have long since lost their heat.

He buries his hands in his pockets, fingering the holes there, and stifles a cough. His head hurts.

He watches people scurry by on the sidewalk, dodging the alley opening like a monster might reach out and pull them in. It starts to rain again and he ducks behind the sort-of shelter of a nearby dumpster, the smell threatening to make him sick.

And then the door opens.

The door’s never opened before. But it’s open now, soft light spilling onto the dirt and cardboard. An umbrella appears first, small and black, followed by a lady all dressed up in lace ‘n velvet and heels.

The door closes as quickly as it opened, but the lady stays nearby, umbrella propped against her shoulder while she lights a cigarette.

Jason’s not gonna say anythin’, just gonna wait right here ‘til she goes back in.

That’s the plan. The safe plan, the one that’ll let him stay here where it’s mostly outta the rain. And then he ruins it by sneezing. Violently. And like five times in a row.

Maybe she didn’t-

“Hello?”

Shit.

Freeze or flee? If he doesn’t make any more noise, maybe she won’t notice him and just think it was someone on the sidewalk.

“Someone here?”

Nope, no one, finish your smoke break and go back inside, please…

Heels click over to him and the next thing he knows, the drizzles have stopped because she’s kneeling in front of him, umbrella tilted just enough to cover him, too.

“Hey, there, honey.” He blinks at her, wonders if he can squeeze by and make a run for it. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

“Don’t got an umbrella. You got a problem with that?”

He doesn’t like the look she’s giving him. Straight-up pity, like he’s a drowned puppy. Bullshit.

“It’s cold out here.” is all she says. “Don’t you want to come inside?”

Um…

She’s not…she doesn’t…look. There’s a certain type of people that…ask that…and she doesn’t look the type. Who’s he to know, but…

“No.” he mumbles, eyeing the gap between her and the sidewalk. He could probably fend her off long enough to find a safer alley, use those heels against her. “No, I’m just gonna…”

He sneezes again and his head swims. A lace-covered hand reaches out and brushes against his forehead. He pulls away, shivering.

“Oh, _honey_.” Pity. So much pity, he fucking hates it. “Come on, let’s get you dried off, get you somethin’ to eat.”

“I don’t want-”

“Trust me, nothing’s going to happen to you.” He doesn’t believe her. “Would you rather me bring you somethin’ out here?”

He doesn’t want anything, could be drugged or somethin’.

He shakes his head-mistake, big mistake-and draws as far away from her as possible, even though it means sacrificing the umbrella.

“Come on.” She stands up and moves just enough that his exit is **that** much harder to get to. “It’s just going to get worse, and we’ve got a skeleton crew right now. I promise nothing is going to happen to you.”

He struggles up, intending to make a run for it, and the resulting light-headedness has him nearly falling back down. The lady grabs his arm to steady him and apparently he doesn’t have a choice.

Hopefully the food’s drugged.

He lets her tug him to the door and again the soft light spills into the alleyway. S’bright, hurts his head. The lady furls the umbrella and sets it in a stand.

“Come on, let’s get you some dry clothes. Probably won’t fit you, but it’ll be better than being wet.”

Huh?

“Oi, Dove, whatcha got?” a man, tattoos visible thanks to rolled sleeves, shouts across the room. Jason swallows and tries not to pull away.

“Let him be, Olli, he’s just a kid.” The lady-Dove?-gives him a nudge. “Come on.”

The room’s big and everything in it looks like it costs more than the whole building. It’s all purple and gold and plush. There’s a stage on one wall and a bar on the other and just behind the bar is a little staircase. Dove leads him there.

“Up here. A lot of us keep spare clothes, ‘cuz of the weather.”

This room’s smaller but no less nice-it’s blue, though, and sure enough, there’s a wardrobe and a couple’a chests and a big mirror.

“Let me see…uh…” She looks him up and down. “Think you’ll have to borrow from me, everyone else is huge.”

“I-I don’t need-”

“Kiddo, you look like a drowned rat. And you sound like shit.” She rifles through a chest and comes up with black sweats and a t-shirt that says **Stay sexy, don’t get murdered!** “Here. Put these on, just throw what you’ve got over the rail there. Come on down when you’re ready and we’ll see about food, huh?”

And with that, she leaves him in the blue room. There’s no window to sneak out through, and the stairs only went here.

The shirt’s soft, he finds when he picks it up. Too big for him, but soft. He ends up tying a knot so it doesn’t turn into a dress. The sweats have to be rolled (and rolled, and rolled), but he eventually gets them so he won’t trip and die. They’re warm. And dry. And soft, real soft.

He doesn’t wanna go downstairs.

He goes anyway, in case they come up here instead.

There’s not a lot of people in here-six or seven, maybe. Most of ‘em don’t even notice him, or don’t care. He wonders what they’re doing. Construction, he can see that, but like, last-minute construction. Upholstery and things.

Dove’s across the room, arguing with a man about ‘boss said’. Boss? So she’s not in charge here? What’s goin’ on?

He sneezes-damn-and starts to cough. Dove’s kneeling in front of him in a flash.

“A little dryer?” He manages a nod. “Okay, let’s see…kitchen’s not stocked, but there might be some hot chocolate back there. Wanna start with that?” He shrugs. It doesn’t matter. “Come on. You can watch me make it.” Huh? “If I come out here and find you raiding that liquor cabinet, I will rat you out!”

This last is directed at Olli, who laughs.

“Just a drop, Dove?”

“You wanna explain to Penguin that we’re out of booze before we even open?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then no.”

Penguin? As in, the guy that used to be a crime boss, then the mayor, and then went back to crime?

Shit. He’s gonna die. He’s seen too much and forget knock-out drugs, the hot chocolate’s gonna be **poisoned**.

“I’m actually okay, so…”

Nature hates him. He’s just about to start inching towards the door when there’s a **crack** and a **BOOOOOOOM** outside, loud enough to feel in his bones.

“You’re not going back out in this. Come on.”

She steers him towards a pair of swinging doors. The kitchen’s cold, empty and steel. Some of the cabinets are half-open, and Dove frowns and smacks them shut, muttering about ‘raised by wolves’ and ‘take an eye out’.

“I swear, if we’re out, they’re going out to get me more, that was _my_ box-here we are!” She pulls a blue box out of a cupboard. “I always have to hide it, because they ruin it with cheap whiskey.”

He doesn’t say anything. Outside, there’s another **BOOM** of thunder.

The kitchen floor is cold against his toes and that, more than anything, reminds him that running isn’t worth it. They’ll catch him, easy, and that’ll be the end of that.

Dove fills a kettle with water from the tap, plunks it on the stove, and turns on the gas.

“We gotta wait a bit, this stove takes its sweet time boiling water. Just water. Everything else is fine, but water? You could take over Gotham while you wait.”

“Like that’s hard.” he mumbles involuntarily. She snorts and pulls down mugs.

“And _there’s_ that Crime Alley sass. Thought you had some in there.” **Clunk, clunk,** go the mugs against the counter. “I mean what I said. Nothing is going to happen to you tonight.”

Yeah, he’s heard that one before.

He sneezes again-ow-and wraps his arms around himself. He’s confused. There’s a lotta ways this should be going, but it’s…not.

“You got a name, kiddo?”

“Jason.” he mutters.

“Good to meet you. I’m Dove.”

Yeah. He figured.

She tears the envelopes open, one by one, and dumps the brown powder into the mugs. Nothing else follows. Maybe they’re not gonna poison him for seeing things. Like there’s anything to see, but he knows how crime lords work. No witnesses.

“I didn’t see nothin’.” he says anyway, just in case. Dove snorts again and shakes her head.

“Boss is out of town, and he’s not the type to murder kids. He’s bad with them, though. God, he visited a school once…I never thought I’d be so glad to see him go back to crime.”

“What happened?”

“His advice for dealing with bullies was ‘push them down the stairs’.”

Oh.

That’s…that’s…it probably works, but still.

The kettle screeches and he flinches. Dove pours the water into the mugs, the **glug-glug-glug** loud in the open space. Nothing else follows the water-no hidden vial or envelope or anything. In the main room, something **thuds** and there’s swearing.

“Stay here. Spoons are in the right-hand drawer, if you wanna mix that up.”

**Click-clack, click-clack.**

He tugs the drawer open, steel like ice against his fingers. Sure enough, there’s spoons, all piled in a little basket.

“The hell’d you do?”

“It’s fine, I got it.”

“If I have to tell the boss that you idiots broke things, I _will_ be naming names.”

“Aw, c’mon…”

“I know it was you that ate my damn leftovers, don’t even test me.”

“That was last week!”

Jason grins despite himself and leans up. The powder’s mostly settled in a little hill at the bottom of the mugs, but there’s some floating at the top. Looks normal. Smells normal. Probably not ‘special crime lord poison hot chocolate’, then.

“Just be careful, okay? I have bigger shit to worry about than you breaking the sound system.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Dove comes back in, rolling her eyes. Jason steps away from the counter and eyes the swinging doors.

“Life lesson-padlock your leftovers.” she grumbles. “All set? Lemme see if there’s food.”

He wraps his hands around the mug, soaking up the warmth. A little voice in the back of his mind says it’s too hot, but his numb fingers refuse to let go. It’s the warmest thing he’s felt in days and like hell is he giving that up.

“Uh…how’s pizza sound?”

“I’m good…”

“Well, they have to eat, I have to eat, you may as well eat with us. C’mon.” They go back into the main room. “Calling pizza, who wants what?”

Jason’s never seen such a swarm of noise, not from adults. They all teleport across the room, bickering over pineapple (‘fuck, don’t go ruining the art, man!’ ‘I’m not, and stop swearing in front of the kid!’ ‘fudge you!’).

* * *

By the time dinner’s over, Jason’s hot chocolate is gone. He’s warm (ish) and more sleepy than anything else. The men have long since stopped even pretending to work and are sprawled on the stage, arguing about the lyrics to ‘Dr. Feelgood’. He’s sitting up against the wall, wishing the lights wouldn’t make everything seem so blurry and wondering when they’ll throw him out.

He yawns and shakes his head to try and wake himself up a little more. It doesn’t work, but it makes everything that much blurrier…but that could be the headache.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s ‘come play with cock’, clear as fuckin’ day.”

“Stop swearing in front of the kid, dummy! And no it’s not.”

“V’heard worse.” he says. “You don’t have to watch it around me.”

“You’re like nine, I don’t swear around kids younger than thirteen.”

“Ten!”

All that does is make them laugh and the one-the ‘don’t swear’ one-reaches over to ruffle his hair. He pulls away and swats half-heartedly at the scarred hand.

“Still younger than thirteen. So stop swearing, ipshit-day.”

“I know what you said.”

They laugh harder. Jason scowls and wraps his arms around his knees.

Eventually the conversation quiets down, turning to spouses and kids, and Jason yawns again, winces when it turns into a nasty hacking. Dove gets up and vanishes into the kitchen. Should he follow? She didn’t say to follow, any nobody else is paying any attention to him, but…

The coughing doesn’t want to stop and he doesn’t notice, at first, that the conversation’s stopped. Not until Dove’s crouching in front of him again, holding out a glass of water. The others are looking over with that same pity she had before and he refuses to make eye contact with any of them.

“Gettin’ tired?” He shakes his head, knowing that ‘tired’ means ‘time to go home’ which means ‘get out now’. From the look of her, she doesn’t believe him. “You sure? It’s awfully late.”

He’s had later nights.

“M’fine.”

“Well, at least come sit with me, huh? Test out the booths, make sure they’re all good for the customers.”

That’s the flimsiest lie he’s ever heard, but he gets up anyway and scrunches into a plush booth near the bar. It’s purple and velvet and **soft** and he doesn’t even try to stop rubbing his fingers over it.

“I gotta go supervise, okay? If you want anything, just yell.”

Once she’s not looking, he curls up on his side, looking out at the other tables. It feels good to lie down on something that’s not cardboard or otherwise rescued from a dumpster. Feels even better to close his eyes to the blurriness. Just for a minute, that’s all.

A minute turns into ten turns into twenty, and the next thing he knows, someone’s draping a coat over him.

“Mm…”

“Shh.” No Swearing Guy. “Go back to sleep, buddy.”

S’just a coat. And it’s warm, real warm.

He wasn’t sleeping, but he’ll close his eyes again if it means he gets to keep the coat for a bit.

No Swearing Guy walks away and Jason burrows under the heavy fabric. After a few minutes, he makes a few adjustments so’s the sleeves are bunched up to make a pillow. If he’s gonna be here, he may as well be comfy, right?

Just for a little bit. Tha’s all, just for a little bit, then he’ll get up and let himself out.

Few more minutes.

Jus’ a few more minutes…

_Zzz._

THE END


	16. Before We Arise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Screaming Trees song of the same name. Not gonna lie, that little prompt the game gives you for the first Flashback o’ Pain, the ‘rescue Jason Todd’ prompt…dick move, guys. Seriously, uncalled for. Screw you all, making me have EMOTIONS when I’m just trying to break faces.

_It’s dark, too dark to make out anything beyond vague geometric shapes. Bruce-not Batman, his cowl is long gone-squints, and one of the shapes becomes an empty wheelchair. The others remain stubbornly out of focus._

_The wheelchair creaks and rolls towards him, misshapen wheels giving it a crippled gait of **squeak-thud squeak-thud**. It finally stops in front of him, footrests mere inches from his legs. Bruce looks down at it, supposing that he should be more concerned that it came over here on its own. It seems harmless enough, though. A little sad, even._

_There’s movement in the shadows and he turns, cape fluttering against the chair, to see…nothing. There’s nothing there at all._

_Nothing to be seen, anyway-if he holds his breath and doesn’t move, he can hear soft crying._

_“Who’s there?”_

_The crying stops, suddenly, and a bolt of desperation goes through his chest when Jason whispers, “Bruce?”_

_God-_

_“Jason.” he breathes, then, louder, “Jason. Where are you?”_

_“I don’t know, I don’t know, just please don’t leave me-”_

_He stalks forward, hearing the **squeak-thud** of the broken wheelchair as it follows. The darkness seems endless, all-consuming, or maybe he’s not moving._

_He breaks into a run._

_“I’m not going to leave you, just keep talking and I **will** find you. Do you hear me?”_

_“Please don’t leave me.” Jason begs, voice cracking. “He’s gonna kill me, he said so, please don’t leave me here, B-”_

_Is it just him, or is it getting lighter? He **is** moving, then, he’ll find Jay and they’ll be out of here in no time-_

_“Please.” His voice is raw. “He’ll be back any minute, please hurry up.”_

_It **is** getting lighter, light enough to see the walls. The passage is narrower than he’d realized, but so, so long._

_“I’m almost there.” he says, and who knows if that’s true but dammit, he’ll **make** it true. “I’m almost there, I’m not going to leave you.”_

_The light grows, and grows, and finally it’s almost blinding. The walls are stark white, the paint rippling from a poor job done, and the tiles are separated with yellowing grout. The passage itself widens, opens into a small room._

_He can see Jason now, dangling from the ceiling by his wrists. Thank god-_

**_SQUEAK-THUD!_ **

_He’s yanked to a stop, his cape caught in that damned chair’s wheels. When he tries to drag it along behind him, it doesn’t move-and neither does he._

_“Bruce, please!”_

_The Joker appears-or was he always there?-and grins grotesquely at Bruce. Bruce yanks at the chair, tries to unfasten his cape, and can’t. The clasp’s stuck, the chair’s stuck…_

_The Joker turns to Jason, holds up a hand. There’s a gun there, a black shadow in the white light. He fiddles with it, seemingly ignoring the rattling of the chair behind him, and levels it._

_“No!”_

**_BANG!_ **

_Jason jerks, just once, before slackening in the chains. The chair and Joker vanish and Bruce sprints towards him, praying he’s not too late, he can fix this, he can make it right…_

_“Jason!”_

_The chains unravel, **clink-clink-clink** , just as he reaches him. Jason drops to the floor, an unmoving, bloodstained heap, and Bruce gathers him up. Not now, not like this…_

_“Y-you said you’d always come.” His voice is faint, so faint and accusing, but he’s alive. “You lied.”_

_“I’m here, everything’s going to be fine.” He struggles up, the boy a dead (no, not dead) weight in his arms._

_“M’not.” He coughs, body shuddering. “You let me die.”_

_“You’re not dead, Jay, just hang on-”_

_“Told you he’d kill me. Told you to hurry.” Where the hell’s the exit? There’s got to be a way out of here, he got here, didn’t he? “Why didn’t you?”_

_The weight in his arms melts away, leaving him holding a bloody yellow cape._

_“Jason?” He stops dead. “Jason!”_

_But Jason’s nowhere to be found._

* * *

“Master Bruce!”

Bruce starts awake. Cave. He’s in the cave, and Alfred is here. Things flood back-Scarecrow, new toxin…Jason.

_“Please don’t leave me here…”_

He sinks back onto the cot, teeth clenched and throat thick. Beside him, Alfred sighs.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes.” Forcing speech is difficult. Painful. “Cave.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Crane.” Who will pay dearly for this when Bruce catches up with him, make no mistake. “Caught me by surprise.”

“Very good, sir.” Alfred sounds shaken and Bruce begins to suspect that he may have…said things.

He sits up, head swimming, and zeros in on the computer. Crane will have gone to ground for the time being, but Bruce will find him. He always finds him.

The computer hums as he sinks into the chair and closes his eyes. He promptly regrets it when his brain throws up blurry images of Jason’s body lying on the floor.

“Sir, are you sure that is the wisest thing to be doing right now?”

“Mm.” **Tap-tap-tap.** “I’m fine, Alfred.”

He’ll be better once he tracks Crane down.

THE END


	17. Die For You

AN: Title and idea from the Starset song of the same name. I don’t even know. I felt evil today.

**I still hate him.**

Of course you do.

**It’s just not fair that some no-name asshole takes him down.**

Nope.

**I was in the area, that’s all. And it was muscle memory. And not planned.**

We believe you. Right, readers?

**Not one word out of any of you, s’that clear? Not. One. Word.**

* * *

Bruce leans his weight on the bullet wound in Jason’s stomach and seethes, “Of all the stupid things you could have done…”

Jason coughs, face creased with pain, and whispers, “Was gonna hit you.”

He knows that, which just makes this worse. It’s bad enough that this is happening at all, but he didn’t see the man with the gun until Jason had dropped behind him. Hell, he hadn’t seen _Jason_ until he dropped behind him, and by then…

He grinds his teeth together and spits out, “Don’t talk.”

Jason laughs at that, a hoarse bark that devolves into a whimper of pain, and Bruce resolutely does _not_ think that he could die here, in the wet road, from a bullet that had someone else’s name on it.

“Y’re an…an emotional disaster.” he breathes, bloody fingers twitching against the road. Bruce presses harder and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut. “Don’t.”

Don’t what? Try to save him this time? If he thinks asking will garner that result, he’s clearly taken a few too many knocks to the head.

 _Or Joker got in deeper than anyone realized,_ Bruce’s brain whispers insidiously. He ignores it, the same as he ignores Jason’s blood seeping into his gloves.

“B.”

“Sh.”

 **“B.”** Jay’s hand comes up, slow and shaky, and shoves at Bruce’s fingers. “S’not your fault.”

Yes it is.

“Stop moving.”

“Look at me.”

He drags his eyes up, really _looks_ at him. He’s pale and wet and he’s bitten his lips bloody at some point, but his eyes are open again and for once there’s no anger there. Pain, and exhaustion, but no rage. Not now.

“M’not sorry.”

“Don’t-”

“Jus’…” He swallows, moans when Bruce moves an inch. “Don’ leave me. Please.”

“I’m not leaving, just be still-”

“Don’ wanna die…by m’self.”

“You’re not going to die.” _By yourself or otherwise._ “Stop talking.”

Jason cracks a small smile, one that vanishes a second later.

“Stop…hurts, jus’…jus’ stop. Lemme go.”

Like hell. Not again.

Bruce steels himself and growls, “That’s enough. You’re not going to die, and that’s an **order**.”

Jason blinks up at him, eyes bright with pain and face so painfully young, and taps his fingers against his hand.

“S’cold.” is all he says, and Bruce is yanked years back, finding him asleep on the library couch. He’d been sick, stubbornly waiting up from Bruce to get in, hadn’t even noticed when the door creaked open. Bruce had carried him up to bed (god, must’ve been six months before the Joker took him), buried him in blankets because he hated being cold, hated being reminded of cardboard mattresses.

He doubts that’s changed.

He moves, pretends not to hear Jason’s pleading, “B…” and tugs the boy (man, now, he grew up in the dark) into his arms, head heavy against his shoulder. Two minutes, Alfred will be here in two minutes, maybe less-the old man could win the Indianapolis 500 if he put his mind to it.

“Shh, Jay. I’m here.”

“’Kay.” He presses his head to the warm spot between Bruce’s neck and shoulder. “M’gonna…gonna close my eyes now. Tha’s’all.”

Bruce nods, throat thick.

“You’ll be all right, Jay. Help’s coming.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just goes boneless in Bruce’s arms. For a second, Bruce panics,

_Not again not like this please-_

but then he registers that Jason’s still breathing, choppily but _breathing_. He has no idea if he’s conscious, and he’s not sure whether to hope that he is ( _conscious means fighting, c’mon Jason don’t do this to me_ ) or that he isn’t ( _let the pain go, he’s suffered enough, don’t make him be awake for any more_ ).

“Help’s coming.” he says again, lifting a hand just enough to cup his neck for a second. “Just hold on.”

Jason doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop breathing, and not a minute later there’s the squeal of tires.

THE END


	18. Strays

AN: Direct relation to ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’, because little Jaybird is precious. And a brat, but less so here because he’s sick and because

**Penguin’s people! Look, I’d’ve mouthed off no problem to streetcorner assholes, but I didn’t wanna die or get sold to the Dollmaker or some trafficking ring or whatever.**

Don’t say that, you’ll inspire them to converge on you and form an army on your behalf.

**Shit…don’t do that, guys, you’re untrained, you’ll get killed and I’m not worth gettin’ killed for. If anyone’s gonna be dyin’ for other people, it’s me.**

* * *

Dove’s lived in Gotham her whole life. Born ‘n raised in what’s now Crime Alley but was then just known as Poor Town. Never really left it, not even when Oswald Cobblepot practically kidnapped her off the street (gee, boss, your people skills…) and dragged her along on his rise through the underworld.

So it’s fitting, that she be here to supervise the little front he’s putting in now. Oh, it’s an operational club, serves drinks and has a decent sound system, but everyone who matters knows it’s just a front, a place for drop-offs and pick-ups and the occasional disappearance.

Not that anyone can prove that-Cobblepot’s long been enamored with the prohibition days, knows how to build a speakeasy so hidden that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find it.

Boss may be a damn loon, but no one can say he’s not clever. Too clever by half, maybe. It shows, now, whereas before he always used to hide it behind stutters and frequent blinks and smiles that never, ever reached his eyes. Now? Everyone knows who he is, they know to stay out of his way.

So it’s a surprise when she steps out for a smoke break mid-construction (the boys’ll be fine for a few minutes) and finds a stray boy. One of the Alley kids, the bold little brats who’ll be a nightmare once the place is opened up. She knows the look of him, scrawny and scrappy and so, _so_ young with eyes that have seen too much.

 _Oh, honey,_ she thinks, _this city’s gotten you, too._

Coaxing him inside would be a losing battle if it weren’t for his bein’ sick, but her heart breaks all the same when she reaches out to steady him and the fight just…drops. Resignation, exhaustion, knowledge that he’s going to end tonight either dead or drugged or wishing he was.

She remembers that. Remembers like yesterday, men three times her age with whiskey breath and grasping fingers. Remembers thinking, _I could be your daughter, don’t you see that?_

They did. Or they didn’t, either way it didn’t matter.

Boss isn’t here tonight, which means she can get the kid some dry clothes and something hot to drink. If they stay late enough, she’s willing to let him crash in one of the booths. It’s fucking pouring out there, and that cough could get nasty.

That, and Crane’s always looking for easy prey-homeless, runaways. Alley kid or not, she doubts he’ll be able to make a getaway. Not like this.

She leaves him upstairs to get dried off. When he finally shuffles down, her spare clothes hanging off him like oversized costume pieces, she hears Olli mutter, “Fucking hell.”

Olli’s a good guy. Nice guy, ignoring the fact that he breaks fingers for a side job. But he’s not from Gotham, doesn’t know what it’s like. So far, he’s stuck close to Cobblepot on the ‘nice’ side of town, not come down here.

Not that it helps the fact that the kid looks all of eight* years old, and scared, and flushed with fever.

“Don’t.” she murmurs. “He’s nervous enough, let me handle him.”

He doesn’t run when she goes over, but he does start coughing again, dry hacks that leave him swaying on his feet.

“C’mon, kiddo.” she says to him, kneeling down so they’re a little closer to the same height. “Think we’ve got some hot chocolate around here somewhere.”

He looks at her, still resigned and _tired_ , and if she didn’t think he’d fight her she’d pick him up. But she remembers…after. And it’d hurt and she’d wanted her mom, but if someone tried to pity her she’d have kicked their fucking balls in.

She doesn’t doubt this kid’s the same. You have to be, down here.

He follows her into the kitchen, hands twisted into the too-large shirt. She pretends not to notice him glancing around, looking for exits.

He’s silent, for the most part, until she starts bitching about the gas stove. Christ, boss, gas stoves are _slow_ , why did you put one in?

“…take over Gotham by the time this thing boils.”

“Like that’s hard.” he mutters, sullen, and she represses a laugh. She knew it. He’ll be a pain in the damn ass when he’s not out of it.

She gets his name-Jason-out of him when he finally figures out she’s not going to poison him or worse, and he takes the cup (too big in small fingers) without too much suspicion. What little bravado returned in the kitchen vanishes, though, when she ushers him back out to take pizza orders.

She may be monitoring idiots, but they’re good-hearted idiots (minus the bone-cracking), and they don’t call attention to the fact that Jason’s practically hiding behind her skirt, mug clutched in his hands like it’ll protect him from life. Dove remembers that, too, still does it, a little-Cobblepot may be nuts, but there’s something comforting about standing behind him. Nobody fucks with the Penguin, not unless they have a death wish, so standing behind him is the safest place on the planet. (That, and he has a habit of surviving-he can take gunshots and stabs and still sign her paycheck, so why shouldn’t he be in front?)

Pizza’ll be a bit, in this weather, and she convinces the kid to hop up at the bar. Some of the bravado comes back with the distance-little brat asks for a shot of vodka.

“Kiddo, you come back when you’re twenty-one and I will personally get you that shot, and laugh when you realize that it tastes like sadness.”

He shrugs, boney shoulders scarcely moving the shirt.

“Shot of bourbon, then?”

“No.”

“I just look…really…young?”

She eyes him, feet not even reaching the rests on the stool and elbows barely reaching the counter, and shakes her head.

“Not buying it. Come back with ID.”

“I have ID! I just…I left it in my other pants.”

Christ. This kid. She knows the type, he’s gonna be an absolute terror when he gets older. Hell, if the risks were lesser, she’d pester Cobblepot to hire him as a runner. But runners are always the ones getting taken out to ‘send a message’ (god, try texting, works great!) and she’s not gonna have a child’s death on her conscience.

“I’ve heard that line before, right alongside ‘I owe you’, ‘baby, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?’, and every other lie, pick-up line, and wheedle attempt you can think of.”

He tries to pull himself up more, but even at his best he still can’t stretch to even halfway over the counter. He ends up coughing again, curled miserably into the too-large shirt.

Pizza arrives, and oh, dear god, Cobblepot has left her in charge of a daycare. Worse, even-small children can be manhandled, grown men have to be _shamed_.

“Your mothers would be appalled.”

“Oi, don’t go spoutin’ about my ma!”

“Then use a napkin.”

“She always said they were a waste’a paper!”

Sad thing is, she probably did. Which means that Dove has to bring out the trump card.

“If you get pepperoni stains on this carpet, I will tell the boss, and I will stand back and laugh as he stabs you twenty times.”

Now, granted, Cobblepot’s been less stabby (why stab when you can hire others to stab for you?), but they don’t need to know that.

It works, that card-everyone grabs napkins, and then, probably out of paranoia, they move to the stage. She can’t blame them for avoiding the cushy booths-Crime Alley or not, Cobblepot’s had them done up nice, almost too nice to sit on.

Jason nibbles at the pizza, a little, before returning to his hot chocolate. He’s scrunched himself up against the wall, eyes still darting towards the front doors, and she wonders how much work it’ll take to get him to lie down and get some sleep. They won’t be outta here tonight, not in this weather, anyway.

When the coughing starts again, she goes to get him some water. Considers digging the ibuprofen out of the first-aid kit, but doubts he’ll take it. She wouldn’t have.

The look he throws her says he’s not buying the crap about ‘testing the booths’, but it gets him up anyway, gets him to sit in one. That’s as good as she’s gonna get, probably, but she’ll take it.

“I gotta go supervise, okay? You need anything, shout.”

He won’t. She knows he won’t. But he nods anyway, eyes wary again, and she lets him be.

The guys are a little more subdued, now, and Charlie’s the one that mutters, “Younger than Marie.”

“Yeah. You grow up quick down here. He wouldn’t have come in at all if he wasn’t sick.”

James-another one, one who’s been here for too long like her-thins his lips and shakes his head.

“This city’s no place for kids.”

No. No, it isn’t. Doesn’t matter who you are-rich, poor, Gotham will suck your soul right outta you, leave you bleeding on the streets.

Charlie goes over, later, covers Jason up with his jacket and reports that he’s mostly asleep. That seems to be the signal for everyone to just shut up and find quiet things to work on-inventory, take out the trash, clean the kitchen…things that won’t wake the kid up, basically.

Dove’s half-forgotten about him when he coughs himself awake, and she can see his confusion from across the room, that sickening _I don’t remember what happened what happened to me where am I?_

“You passed out on us, hon.” she calls, trying to keep her voice light. “’Member?”

The look vanishes, smoothed over by an attempt at a cocky smile.

“I was just restin’ my eyes.”

“Sure, kiddo. Maybe go back to that, huh?”

He shakes his head, all stubbornness and paranoia, and she sighs and goes over. He looks like hell, flushed and shivering and ringed-eyed and drowning in Charlie’s jacket.

“You don’t look so good, hon.”

“M’fine.”

“I’d believe you if I was blind. Want another drink?”

He gets out half a nod before mumbling, “No, m’okay.”

“I’m gonna get some more, so if you want the water…”

This time she gets a “Don’ care.”

She can work with that.

When she comes back, he’s curled up on the seat again, the jacket tugged up as far as it will go without pulling it off his feet. She sets the mugs down and he flinches, tugs himself upright via the table.

“Thanks.”

He won’t look at her, won’t look at anything beyond his mug. She settles into the velvet, glad to get off her feet (Cobblepot and his work uniforms…) for a few minutes.

Jason’s the one that breaks the silence, his voice hesitant and stuttering.

“I don’t got any money, but-” He bites his lip, still won’t look up. “I can…I mean…”

No. No, no, she knows where that’s going, has said it herself, but she doesn’t need to hear it.

“Hon, it’s pouring rain. That’s all. ‘Member what I said, ‘bout nothing happening? I meant it. I promise.”

“Tha’s not how it works.”

“No, it’s not, is it?” He shakes his head, clearly miserable. “But it is tonight. Finish that and get some sleep.”

He sneezes, takes a small sip, and scrunches against the wall.

“You swear?” And that’s the most fire she’s gotten out of him all night. “You _swear_ nothin’s gonna-”

“Cross my heart’n hope to die.” she says easily, ignoring the veiled desperation on his face, the _please don’t lie to me I want to believe this is true_. “Nothin’s happened yet, right?”

“…I guess not.”

“And that’s how it’s gonna stay.”

He mulls it over, fingers gripping the cup hard enough to turn white, and mumbles, “You’re from here.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you get out?”

Got lucky (or unlucky), got yanked into a nice-ass car by people working for a man with a limp and knife-sharp smile and eyes that can see into your soul. Didn’t really get out at all.

“I didn’t.” she says honestly. “Mr. Cobblepot…it’s different dealings, that’s all.”

“But you’re in charge’a them.” He nods towards the stage. “They listen to you.”

“Boss says I’m in charge, but I’m not. They listen to him, that’s all.”

“Is he…good? Penguin?”

“No.” she says at once. “No, he’s…he’s not.”

“Not _nice_ , _good_.” he stresses. “I know he’s not _nice_ , ev’ryone knows that. But the stuff he does…s’that good?”

She has to think about that one, actually. Technically, the answer’s no, but…she has a job. A legal job, even-on paper, at least, she’s Cobblepot’s PA. And most of the time that really is what she does, ignoring the ‘sign for gun shipment that did not go through customs’ he has her do sometimes.

“Depends on who you ask.” she says at last. “Most of the time, if any good comes out of it, it’s secondary.”

He gnaws on his lower lip and rubs a finger over the glossy tabletop.

“Do you think he’s good?”

“Sometimes.” There’s worse employers, anyway, and he does provide jobs. Robs museums ‘n things, too, though. Kills people. “Why?”

He shrugs.

“Just wonderin’.”

Yeah, right.

She doesn’t push him, though, just lets him finish his drink. This time he doesn’t wait for her to walk away, just curls back up on the seat, huddled in the jacket.

“Sweet dreams, honey.” she says softly. “You’re okay. You’re okay, just remember that. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

This time he looks a little more like he might believe her, or like he wants to-bleary-eyed and tired and _please_.

When she looks back at him later, he’s asleep-really asleep, this time, one hand hanging off the bench. She puts it back, adjusts the coat, and steps away. He doesn’t even twitch.

THE END

 

 

 

 

 

*Jay’s actually ten, but he doesn’t look it.


	19. Patience

AN: I’d almost feel bad for these people if they weren’t, y’know,

**Scum of the earth? Lower than that?**

Basically, yeah.

**They made their choices. Those choices were poor.**

Fair enough. Go get ‘em.

**Do not try this at home, kids. I am a trained professional, you’ll just hurt yourselves. Probably in some horribly embarrassing way that’ll get you plastered all over the internet for the rest of your life.**

* * *

Jason considers himself a patient man. He’d have to be: Robin spent long nights lurking on rooftops, Jason Todd had to wait over a year for his chance to get out, and now…

Now, Red Hood is spending long nights lurking on rooftops. Talk about full circle, huh?

He huddles into his coat, rain tapping gently against his helmet, and watches the men below. They just got here, but he’s been waiting for two hours already.

They’re quiet, nervous, and he smirks to himself. He’s the reason they’re nervous, and he revels in it. A few of them scan the lot, no doubt looking for him, and the smirk grows into a grin.

**Keep looking, boys, I’ll even hold still for ya.**

And he does, nice as can be, but they don’t see him. Of course they don’t. He doesn’t really want to be seen. Not yet.

He sighs and wonders when they’ll get off their lazy asses and get to work.

He hears the truck before he sees the headlights, and he sees the headlights before he hears the muffled screaming and banging inside it.

**Gotcha, you sick sons of bitches.**

He forces himself to wait for a few more minutes, for the shitty boat to chug up the river. Chug up it does, and two men disembark. They go to the truck and open the doors. There’s his cue.

He stands up, glances at the floodlight they’ve set up, and deems it unacceptable. It’ll have to go. It’s not flattering.

He swings soundlessly towards it, deciding on the way to knock it down and scare the shit out of them. And it does-it hits the ground hard, shattering the bulbs, and the result is immediate: “Fuck!”

Yup.

“Get moving!”

Aww, so soon?

He tackles the driver first, when he bolts for the truck-slams him against the door hard enough to dent it. There’s gunfire, but he’s already hurling himself out of the way, vanishing into the shadows behind the truck.

“Stay here.” he hisses. “You’re gonna be fine, just **stay here**.”

Nobody answers, but some of banging and screaming stops. There. Now there’s (hopefully) no chance of anybody getting caught in the crossfire.

“Where’d he go?”

“Stick together, we’ll find him.”

Dammit. He’d been hoping they’d split up. What can he say, the terror when they find one of their own, dead in some lonely dark corner, is…kinda funny.

Also, his chances of going down in a hail of bullets are lessened. That’s always good.

Oh, well, he can work with clusters. Just takes a bit more effort, that’s all.

He swings himself under the truck and works his way to the front. The driver’s unconscious on the ground, gloved hand brushing against the front tire. The others…shit, how many…five?...are gathered around the fallen floodlight.

He unclips a small smoke bomb from his belt and rolls it towards them. Okay, he’s got ten seconds before it goes off, time to move.

Ten.

There’s movement, and somebody fires in the direction of the boat.

Nine.

“What was that?”

“Thought I saw somethin’!”

Eight.

The boat bumps against the docks and there’s the sound of a head being smacked.

“Dummy!”

Seven.

Jason gets up on top of the truck and squirms forward.

Six.

Almost as an afterthought, he tugs his stun gun (modified, strong enough to send a charge through Batman’s lines) out of his jacket.

Five.

“You’re not gettin’ outta here alive, freak!”

“Shut up, are ya tryin’ to piss him off?”

Heh. Four.

Three.

Two.

“Maybe he’s gone-”

One.

The smoke bomb starts subtle and grows quickly. By the time they realize that it’s not just fog rolling in, they’re in a cloud of white.

“Shit!”

One of them breaks out of the cloud, bolts blindly for the truck. Jason tackles him, clapping a hand over his mouth before he can scream and jamming the stun gun up against his jugular.

He presses the button.

The scream vibrates against his hand and the guy convulses, fingers clawing at Jason’s jacket. After a minute, the screaming stops and he’s left with a jerking body in his grip. He drops it and vanishes into the shadows with a, “Should’ve called in sick.”

The cluster emerges from the smoke cloud, coughing, and Jason rolls back under the truck.

“Shit.”

“We’re all gonna die!”

No, no, one of them gets to run along back to their boss. He’s not sure who that is yet, but still.

One of them steps up against the truck and nah, he shouldn’t…

Eh, what the hell.

He grabs the guy’s ankles and yanks him off his feet. His gun hits the ground, spraying bullets, and Jason drags him, screaming and clawing, under the truck.

“Shit!”

The others are already kneeling down to save their buddy and Jason moves backwards, dragging him along the asphalt.

“Don’t shoot, I don’t wanna die!”

Too fucking bad.

He ties the guy’s ankle to the suspension and reaches up, takes his jaw in hand.

“Shh.”

**CRACK!**

There. That’ll keep him busy.

He scrambles out the other side just as boots come around the corner. Gunshots ring out.

“Here!”

Nope.

He grapples onto a shipping crate and drops to the other side. There’s the sound of running and someone shouts, “Gemme some light!”

“Fucker broke the light!”

“Then get new light!”

“Stick together, fuckers, he can’t take us all at once!”

That sounds like a challenge.

The guy under the truck is still screaming and somebody kicks the side.

“Just shut up, we’ll get ya in a minute!”

Ouch. No sympathy amongst this lot. Not that he expected much, given what they’re doing, but still.

“Come on out, ya little prick!” Brave words. “Unless you’re chicken!”

He could take these guys now, easy-peasy. But that’s what Batman does, and guess what, they go to jail, get out on good behavior, and get back to work. What good does that do, again?

No, he wants his point made-he’s **not** Batman, and you **don’t** want him coming after you. Last thing he wants is a hoard of Arkham groupies, thanks. He’s seen what **that** fallout looks like.

They’ve gotten quiet and he has the nasty feeling they’re surrounding the shipping crate he’s hiding behind.

Welp. They get points for tryin’.

He jumps, hooks his fingers around the top, and pulls himself up just as they burst around the sides.

“What the fuck?”

“Where’d he go?”

“Shi-it…”

One of ‘em-either Wuss Supreme or Not That Dumb-is lingering at the back of the group. He’s literally like, three feet from them. Three feet too many, as it happens-snapping a neck isn’t that hard. The others only notice when they turn and trip on the corpse, and by then Jason’s on the other side of the lot.

“Shit!”

Final two. Eh, he’s been patient long enough.

He remembers his screaming friend under the truck and y’know, there is such a thing as two birds with one stone.

Or, in this case, three birds with one truck.

The truck’s parked with its front bumper facing a shipping crate. Funnily enough, it’s the same shipping crate the other two are backed up against. They’re waving their guns around and one’s got his phone out, trying to use the backlight to find him. It’s sad.

Jason sprints across the lot and lets himself into the truck on the passenger’s side. He doesn’t bother closing the door behind him-too much noise.

Okay, okay…fuck it, pocket knives are perfectly fine keys. It’s Gotham, everybody who lives here knows how to make that work.

He rams it into the ignition and twists. The motor growls and the headlights turn on to illuminate two identical expressions of terror.

He waves-eye contact was made, acknowledgement is a must-and hits the gas. They try to run.

The truck slams them against the shipping crate and he keeps the pedal down until the crate starts to skid. Then he removes his makeshift key and gets out, ignores the trails of blood and the screaming, and goes around to the back.

The passengers-ranging from…fuck, that boy looks seven at **best** …to mid-twenties-cower when he pulls the doors open.

“You guys okay?” Silence. Jason swallows and wills himself to look as harmless as possible. He doesn’t feel successful. “C’mon, you can come out now. You’re safe.”

Nobody moves. Eventually, it’s one of the kids-the boy-that inches forward.

“Are they gone?”

“Yeah, buddy. They’re gone.”

That seems to be the cue for everyone to start filing out. Nobody looks that badly hurt-a few bruises here ‘n there, but nothing serious. Good.

“You guys all okay?” Hesitant nods. “Okay. Stay together, uh…hang on.”

The phone one guy was using for a light flew from his hand when the truck hit him. Hopefully it’s just a cracked screen…yes! God bless Nokia. The thing’s barely even scratched, and it’s got four bars.

He rubs a few smudges of blood off it and seeks out the oldest-looking person, a woman.

“Here. Call the police, tell them what happened.”

She doesn’t want to touch the phone, he can tell, but she takes it from him anyway. He waits until she dials and the faint, “911, what’s your emergency?” comes from the speaker before turning his attention to the truck.

The screaming’s stopped, for the most part. A check on the guy underneath says he’s unconscious, one of the two pinned to the crate is dead, and the other one is on his way. Jason hops up on top of the hood and grips his hair.

“Not a smart career move.” he hisses. “Who’s your boss?” The only answer he gets is a weak spitting of blood near his boots. Unacceptable. “Tell me, and I make the pain go away. Keep bein’ a smartass, and I make it worse.” He waves his stun gun under the guy’s nose and zaps it, making a nasty **ZZZT** noise that echoes across the asphalt. “Got it?”

“Screw you, freak.”

Loyal little shit, isn’t he? Or just really bitter. Bitterness is a great motivator, he’ll admit to that.

Either way, Jason doesn’t have time for this. The cops’ll be here any minute (they’d fuckin’ better be, anyway), he needs names.

He holds the stun gun to the guy’s eyeball and rests his thumb on the button.

“Final answer? You don’t wanna phone a friend? Ask the audience?”

“Okay! Okay.” The guy whines, either in fear or in pain, and Jason withdraws the stun gun. “The Collector. That’s all I know.” He chokes, bloody froth staining his lips. “Tha’s…tha’s all, man, please…”

“That’s not an answer. What’s his **name**?”

“I dunno.” Jason has to strain to hear that one. “I dunno, I never seen him.”

Dying men are honest, Jason has found. He can be nice, then.

Also, he hears sirens in the distance.

He gets back in the truck, starts it up, and backs up just enough to let the bodies hit the floor.

“They won’t hurt you.” He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t want to see the cluster of frightened people. “I’ll stay until the police get here.”

Nobody answers. When the first police headlights sweep into the lot, Jason vanishes into the darkness. They’ll be okay now.

He’s made sure of it.

THE END


	20. Squad Goals (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine takes his name from a French officer who was quite the badass-went from baker’s son to aide-de-camp to Napoleon.
> 
> I don’t know where this came from. Before you all yell at me for letting Jason be a self-sacrificing idiot, I don’t *let* him. He does it by himself, I have no control here. Take it up with him.

AN: **May the Fourth be with you!-J.**

* * *

“Get down!”

Antoine Drouot yanks at the nearest arm (could be Jimmy, could be Mark, he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head) and pulls the owner back into the jeep as they take a hard turn that nearly has the thing up on two wheels. A second later, bullets strike the outside with a determined **PING PING PING!**

Antoine glances in the rearview mirror, sees another jeep jump a dune, and swears.

“Boss, we got company!”

“I see that, **thank you**!” The boss jerks the wheel and they take another turn, skidding in the sand. “Take the wheel!”

“Sir?”

“Wheel! Now!”

Antoine’s barely got his seatbelt unbuckled when the boss-a clearly crazy motherfucker callin’ himself the Arkham Knight-pulls himself through the sunroof, leaving the jeep driverless. Antoine swears again, leaps into the seat, and puts the pedal down. The jeep shoots forward.

This was a shitshow. It was supposed to be a simple thing, burn the camp and get out. Easy-peasy for their little group of seven. But either they’ve got a mole or they got set up, because they were…expected.

Seriously, they drove up, got in, and came face-to-face with the occupants. The place is still on fire, but Antoine suspects that it’s because the boss is a vindictive asshole rather than any sense of ‘do the job or die trying’.

And they may die trying. The guys chasing them are certainly aiming to make that happen.

“Takin’ a turn!” he shouts up. No need to run over their own employer, after all. Crazy bastard or not, he got them this far.

“Shut up and drive!”

Okay. Guy’s got a death wish, what-the-fuck-ever.

Antoine makes another turn just as-CHRIST is that a MISSILE? Come on!-flies past the window. Shit, shit, if he gets outta this he is **so** quitting-

**CRA-ACK!**

There’s an ominous **BOOM!** and a piece of jeep- **not** their jeep-rolls by. A second later, the boss hangs his gun into the car. Out of the corner of his eye, Antoine sees a hand take it. He’s expecting the Knight to get back in like a sane person.

Clearly, his expectations are too high. One minute the boss is on the roof, the next minute he’s…not.

“We lost the boss!”

“No we didn’t!” That’s Mark, hanging out the window. “He’s right there!”

Antoine risks glancing over and **oh fucking fuck**.

The idiot’s **in** the other jeep, must’ve jumped over there. The soldiers in the jeep are as surprised as anyone else, which is probably the only reason they haven’t killed him.

“Gimme play by play here!”

“Two guys down, but they got a fucking giant in there.” Mark reports. “Gimme my rifle.”

“If you hit him, I’m rattin’ you out.”

“I’m not gonna hit him, just don’t make any sudden swerves.”

“Don’t make any sudden swerves.” Antione mocks angrily. “Want me to turn your water to wine while I’m at it?”

“Sure.”

Idiots. He is surrounded by idiots.

He hears Mark spread himself across Jimmy and Trent and prop his gun on the bottom of the window.

“Can’t get a clear shot…think that helmet’s bulletproof?”

There’s an angry chorus of “No!”

Antoine wishes someone else was driving. He has never felt such a strong urge to facepalm. Or possibly fling himself under the nearest vehicle.

“C’mon, either take him down or move-shit.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“What. What’s going on back there?”

“Boss is down.”

“Then shoot the bastard!”

“Through the Knight?”

Oh.

Antoine risks another glance. **Shit** is right-a big guy, bigger even than Trent, has one arm wrapped around the Knight’s neck and the other hand holding a gun to his ribs. The Knight’s limp as a rag doll and Antoine can’t tell if he’s standing or if the big guy’s holding him up. He really hates that helmet right about now-the Knight could be dead for all they know, but they **don’t** know and abandoning him feels…slimy. He wouldn’t leave them. Hasn’t-has yelled at them later, but he always, **always** comes and gets them.

There’s yelling from the other jeep, an angry, “Pull over!”

“What do we do?”

“Why you askin’ me?”

“You’re driving!”

He hates this much responsibility.

He eases off the gas, though, because they don’t know if he’s dead or not and he’d stop for them.

The jeeps come to a stop and there’s more shouting.

“Get out of the jeep! Get out!”

“What now?”

“We improvise.”

What? This was not part of the plan. Nowhere did the plan mention the Arkham Knight jumping into an enemy vehicle and getting captured by Hagrid’s scary relative.

Then again, nowhere did the plan mention being chased by the enemy vehicle in the first place.

The driver jumps out of the jeep, assault rifle in hand. The giant stays where he is, with the Knight still slumped in his grip.

Antoine’s wondering how fast he can get a smoke grenade out of his belt when there’s a small **clatter** and a sudden, frantic, **BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!**

As one, they dive behind the jeep, followed by gunfire. Two seconds later, there’s an earsplitting **BOOM!**

Antoine pokes his head up, blinking in the dust and so very grateful for insisting that they wear something to cover their faces.

The driver’s dead and the big guy’s missing a leg. Of the boss, there’s no sign at all. If that fucker blew himself up on their behalf, Antione is going to get a Ouija board, so help him god-

The ruined jeep moves. Trent vaults over and flings a piece over near the severed leg.

“Sir!”

Oh, good, Antoine doesn’t need a Ouija board. The Knight’s…well, he actually has no idea if he’s fine, but he’s on his feet and in one piece. Antoine’s almost disappointed: he had a great speech forming, something involving ‘didn’t your parents teach you any self-preservation?’ and ‘not fuckin’ Indiana Jones’.

The Knight pulls away from Trent, flapping a hand in irritation, and they all pretend to ignore the fact that he’s wobbly and clearly five steps from faceplanting in the sand.

“You okay, sir?”

“I’m fine.” Even with the voice modulator, he doesn’t sound fine. Sounds shaky as hell. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

Antoine doesn’t offer him the driver’s seat back, and he doesn’t try to take it-just sinks into the passenger’s seat without another word. Everyone else piles back in, and for once there’s no shoving and bickering. Antoine’s thinking that’s how it’ll stay, and he’s glad, which means that of course the universe has to take a crap on his head and happiness.

“This thing got any radio?”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

Jimmy lunges forward and Antoine’s hoping the Knight will be pissy and do the scary wrist-grab and shove him into the back. Antoine’s wish is not granted and Jimmy’s fingers touch the radio dial and twist. There’s static, and crackling, and then, against all odds, “…I been here all night…”

No. No. NO.

He tries to change the channel, but all that comes in is static or…that. Why. What did he do? Did he kill too many ants as a child? Steal too many of his mom’s gumdrops from her secret stash? Jerk off to too much unrealistic porn? Clearly he’s done something, because this…this has gone beyond ‘bad day’ and into ‘divine punishment’.

There’s cackling from the back-assholes-and then comes the ultimate betrayal of the **Knight’s** quiet chuckling, which is both creepy and seldom a good thing.

“Leave it.” What? “S’a training exercise in tuning out awful noises.”

Antoine thinks he just made that up to be a dick.

Whatever. He has no grounds to complain, seein’ as the guy did just nearly blow himself up for them. Dumbass.

He scowls when he’s pretty sure the Knight’s not looking, though, and hunches over the steering wheel. In the back, there’s a steady, quiet karaoke chorus and Antoine considers driving this thing off the nearest cliff.

 _Screw you all_ , he thinks bitterly. _Next time I’m on cook duty, I’m givin’ ya food poisoning ON PURPOSE._

THE END


	21. Happy Boss's Day (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed this. That’s literally my only excuse. What? My impulse control ran into traffic and got run over.
> 
> Boss’s Day is in October this year, but Dr. Crane will probably claw through the fourth wall and do horrible things to me if I deviate from our regularly scheduled programming, so you get this now. Gotta keep the Doc happy, I have enough nightmares without his help.

Truth be told, once you get past the whole ‘can leave a roomful of trained soldiers moaning in pain or unconscious’ thing, the Knight’s not a bad guy. Seriously, he’s not. Yeah, you will get the shit beat out of you if you’re dumb enough to volunteer for demonstrations, but then you get to learn how to do the same thing. That, and they get mattresses-actual fucking mattresses, not the lumpy pieces of crap Antoine remembers. (Still has nightmares about those things…somebody got impaled on a spring once. Seriously, rolled over and got a spring through the stomach. Guy lived, but **ow**.)

Antoine loves the mattresses. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d kiss the Knight full on the…well, there’s the helmet, but…the mouth-section. He’d probably really regret trying, but still. The sentiment is real.

But it’s not just the mattresses, or the actual, edible meals. It’s not even the did-you-learn-from-some-ancient-Ninja-clan training. It’s just…Knight’s a decent guy. Most of the time. There’s a couple’a dates that everyone knows you avoid him on (somethin’ must’ve happened, Antoine doesn’t wanna know), and there’s been one or two assholes that thought harassing some girl was a great idea (it wasn’t), but by and large, you do your job, good things happen to you.

Which is why he’s corralled the other guys that have been here from the get-go, when they were just a handful of guys wondering what the hell was **with** that helmet. They still wonder, a little (is his face burned off? Horribly mutilated? **Is he Darth Vader?** Who fuckin’ knows.), but it doesn’t really matter anymore.

“…boss is in Stress Central lately.” Mark’s sayin’, cheek swollen with that fuckin’ gum that Antoine is semi-convinced has been there for years. “More he talks to that Scarecrow guy, more worked up he gets.”

Yeah, no shit. That’s why they’re here. The Knight’s been testier than usual, more brutal than he used to be. Not like they ever get off easy, but there’s been a couple times…

“What do we do, then, huh? You wanna go ask ‘im what’s up?”

Nobody volunteers for that one. Antoine’s…pretty sure…nothing will come of it, but then again…

This Gotham job, man. This is what’s done it. And they’re in too deep to get out now, all paid and everything. Not that Antoine wants to get out. Exactly. Much.

(Okay, yeah, he’s seen Scarecrow once, and he doesn’t know if that’s a mask or what, but **brr**.)

But still. They’ve never protested before, if they weren’t in like sin they might be able to get out of it on that alone.

Dammit.

“Any better ideas?”

Silence, punctuated only by the **SCHLOP-SCHLOP** of that goddamn gum. How Mark hasn’t been murdered over it is beyond Antoine. Seriously. Dude. Did your mom never tell you it was a filthy habit?

His fingers twitch with the urge to slap him upside the head, maybe make him choke on that glob of shit. But then he’d have to explain to the Knight that ‘I accidentally killed my teammate’. And the guy will **know**. There will be no ‘I don’t know, he choked outta nowhere’.

“Nope.”

How helpful.

“Thanks, asshole.”

“Love you too, best buddy of mine.” Jimmy slings an arm around his shoulders and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Antoine smacks him off. “I thought we had somethin’ special, man. That hurts.”

Why. Why him, why this. It’s times like these that makes Antoine think he should’ve opened a flower shop in Barcelona and just been happy with that. But noo, here he is, surrounded by idiots and preparing to invade Gotham Fuckin’ City.

“Fuck off.” he snaps. “Unless you turn into George Clooney, it’s not gonna fly. Now seriously, c’mon, guys, somebody’s gotta have ideas.”

“We’ve been runnin’ nonstop for weeks. My brain is fried.”

And just like that, the light bulb appears.

* * *

In hindsight, this may not have been the greatest idea.

Or at least, they could have planned it a little better. Maybe. Y’know.

But it’s too late now, and Antoine is standing outside the Knight’s quarters, fist raised to knock. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know how he got roped into being the one to do this. But it’s either knock, or go back to the guys in shame and never hear the end of it.

Or be dragged back here by force and held and at sniper-point until he knocks on the damn door.

 _Me ‘n my bright ideas,_ he moans inwardly. _Good-bye, flower shop._

“Are you going to knock or not?” comes the mechanical growl, and **SHIT** that thing sees through doors? Well, he knew it saw through doors, kinda, but he didn’t realize the Knight had it **on**. Crap.

He knocks anyway and is probably imagining the amusement in the responding, “Come in.”

He’s only actually been inside a handful of times, and only then in emergencies. It doesn’t look any different than theirs, ‘cept for the tech station on the far wall. Maybe the helmet needs charging at night, like a phone?

The Knight is over there, tapping on a laptop. Uh-oh.

“Did you need something.” Amusement’s gone now. This could go…badly.

“Somethin’s goin’ on in the cafeteria that you need to come see.” he says in one breath. “Sir.”

“Handle it, I’m busy.”

“Uh, Sir, you really need to…come…see. I mean. I uh, tried. To handle it.”

There’s a sigh, more tapping, and the gentle _clip_ of the laptop being closed. **Yes.**

They trek across the compound to the cafeteria in silence. The Knight pushes the door open, muttering about idiots left alone, and absolutely **freezes** when there’s a shout of “HAPPY BOSS’S DAY!”

Antoine wonders, just for a second, if he could push the man over like a short-circuited drone, palm flat in just the right spot.

Some wise-ass in the back whispers, “I think we broke him.”

Somebody else smacks said wise-ass in the back of the head.

The Knight ~~unglitches~~ unfreezes and twists up to look at the streamers. They’re not really streamers so much as they’re a **lot** of napkins doused in food coloring and tied together, but they turned out not bad anyway.

“What.”

Well. At least he’s not broken.

“We, uh, didn’t know when your birthday was or anything, but you’ve been off for weeks so me ‘n the guys thought maybe this’d cheer you up and I’m really sorry for draggin’ you out but-”

Antoine shuts up when the Knight holds up a hand.

“Lemme get this straight. You lot managed to hide this from **me** for **how** long?”

“’Bout a week.”

More silence, and a breath through the mask that **might** translate to, “Oh my god.” Then, “I’m impressed.”

So is Antoine, to be perfectly honest.

“Thank you, sir.”

There’s another breath that sounds more like a laugh and a, “You’re not planning a mutiny, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Is this even a day? Or did you make it up.”

“It’s really early, sir, but it’s a day. I mean, it’s in October, but seein’ as we’re gonna be kinda busy…”

“Mm. You, uh, you did good.”

Antoine hears that for what it is- **stop me from talking I have no idea what to say here HELP** -and takes pity.

“We got movies, if you can spare a couple of hours…”

The Knight tilts his head in Antoine’s direction.

“I think I can spare a couple of hours.”

Mission accomplished.

THE END


	22. Pass the Popcorn (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antione literally just showed up while I was doing the dishes and was like, “GIRL, siddown, have I got stories for you.” Seriously, that’s basically how that happened.

It’s hot.

It’s always hot here, but this is like, Hell’s Waiting Room hot. And it’s **humid** , which just makes it that much worse. Even the guys from Arizona are bitching now, and they’re usually the last to complain. (About heat, anyway-the second it’s under eighty degrees, they’ve got long sleeves on.)

Antoine sprawls under a vent, shirt sticking to both him and the floor, and hopes the Knight doesn’t decided that ‘y’know what would be a great activity? Jungle drills!’

So far nobody’s seen him today, but still. It could happen. Maybe Antoine can say he’s prone to heatstroke and not have to do them. Yeah, yeah, he’s goin’ with that.

Jimmy flops down next to him, sweaty limbs much too close for Antoine’s liking, and groans, “I think my balls are melting off.”

“Didn’t need to know that.”

“How’ll I explain that to Maria?” Maria is one of the girls Jimmy goes to see on days off. Antoine wonders how she hasn’t killed him yet. “Last time, she said-”

“I **really** don’t need to know that, thanks.” Jimmy just moans. Antoine musters up the energy to kick his ankle. “Why you gotta be so close, man?”

“Vent.”

“I can respect that.”

They lay in sweaty silence for a while, and Antoine’s thinking **maybe it’ll rain, that might help** when he picks up a conversation at a table a little bit away.

“…fucking bullshit, man, why’re we takin’ orders from a guy in a helmet, huh?”

Uh-oh.

Antoine considers getting up and shutting up McChatty over there, but it’s **hot.**

That, and McChatty-real name Chris Walker-has been a pain in the ass since he got here. If (when, it’s always when) the Knight finds out, it’ll be funny. Maybe teach him some goddamn manners.

“He’s good, that’s why.”

“Yeah, but…” McChatty waves a hand over his face. “What the hell? It’s creepy and weird. Is he too scared to take it off?”

“Should we help him?” Jimmy mutters, head twisted over in fascinated horror. “He can’t be that stupid.”

“Stupid should hurt. I’m not movin’.”

Stupid does hurt. Before anything else can be said, the doors open and the Knight himself walks in. Bastard looks unphased by the heat. It’s unfair. Maybe that suit has a cooling system, but Antoine suspects he just refuses to acknowledge anything that’s not ‘life-threatening injury’.

Everybody shuts up and looks over, McChatty included.

“This is gonna be good.”

“Shh.”

“Walker.”

McChatty looks up. Antoine’s gotta give him credit, he doesn’t look like he’s about to crap his pants.

“Sir?”

“Come here.” He gets up and goes over there (like he’s got a choice) and the Knight looks him up and down. “Take it off.”

“Sir?”

“My helmet. Take it off.”

Bless his heart, the guy tries. Reaches right up and just goes for it. Which makes it all that much funnier when he gets thrown into a chair.

“Again.”

It’s starting to dawn on him, now, that he has fucked up big time. But what can he do? Admit it? Pfft, no.

He tries again anyway and ends up on the floor with a boot on his chest.

“Anybody has a problem, you bring it to **me**. Is that clear?”

There’s a chorus of, “Yes, sir!”

The Knight leaves the room without another word and McChatty picks himself up off the floor. Jimmy kicks Antoine’s ankle and mouths, “Ouch.”

Yeah. Ouch is right.

THE END


	23. Far to Fall (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there were a few times that I…didn’t control the Batmobile very well. Y’know. Lost control and drove off a roof or something. (I have twitchy hands, sometimes they screw me over.) So. Not meant to be anything much, just a lark because my family life has become a dumpster fire and I needed a pick-me-up.

Jason’s looking forward to this being over. Being back in Gotham is giving him a headache and dealing with Crane is just the icing on the fucking cake.

Doesn’t help that he’s like, ninety percent certain Crane knows who he is. No way all those little verbal jabs about clowns are by accident. Crane doesn’t do things by accident.

When this is over, he’s really tempted to turn on that smug son of a bitch.

**Get your head in the game, dumbass. Batman first, Crane later.**

Batman, from what he understands, is driving around looking for Nygma’s stupid puzzles. That’s fine. Gives Jason time to regroup and restratigize, seeing as the asshole has taken out several of his drones. Bullshit, is what that is. But it doesn’t matter. He can replace them as easily as Batman replaced him.

He’s settled in one of the airships, looking for weak groups (Bleake Island, drone down, reinforcements necessary) when his coms crackle and Drouot says, “Sir? You need to see this.”

What **now**. Really, what now.

“This had better be good news.” he growls. “Where are you.”

“Patching you through to the cameras, sir.”

That’s not an answer, and it doesn’t bode well. With no small feeling of trepidation, Jason brings up the cameras in question. It’s not a live feed, now, so at least whatever terrible thing Drouot is showing him is over.

Batman is still driving along, presumably looking for Riddler shit. He’s on a roof. Okay, good for him, he can drive on a roof. (Gotham’s rooftops are fortified, probably for this exact reason. He’s sure that thing went through somebody’s ceiling a few times in the beginning.)

He boosts (he’s upgraded since they met last, good to know) and the car jumps into the space between rooftops.

It then strikes a balcony- **that** is not reinforced, and it snaps on the impact-and…plummets.

Did…wait. Wait. Hold up.

Jason rewinds and slows the video down. Yeah. Batman…Batman **missed.**

He’s not sure whether to laugh or sob. He went through all this trouble of training an army-a literal army-to take the fucker down and…and…this. This happened.

He takes several shuddery breaths and switches back to Drouot.

“This changes nothing.” he warns. “He is still dangerous. Don’t forget that.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“…you sent that to everyone, didn’t you.”

“I did, sir.” There is no shame to be detected. “As a morale boost.”

Well…um…that…that’s not…

**Fine.**

“Reiterate that he can still break their bones if they let their guards down.”

“Yes, sir.”

He clicks off and returns to his computer. After a minute, he brings the footage back up. To analyze, is all. For weaknesses.

THE END


	24. Masks

AN: This isn’t based on anything-Exciting Original Plot ™ ahoy! Hey, I needed a distraction, Jay needed somethin’ to do…

**Finally! We get to the good stuff.**

You say that now. We’ll see how enthusiastic you are at the end.

**What.**

Mm-hm. Remember? Chomp-chomp.

**What did I do to you, huh?**

You smushed my car.

**BATMAN’S CAR, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like he doesn’t have spares.**

I WAS DRIVING SO IT WAS MINE.

**Christ. Learn from my mistakes, kids-smush one little Batmobile and it’s game over for you.**

So I’ve been freaky stressed/busy lately, but I’ve been down the road of ‘put your mental health aside’ and there’s thorns, so I made time for this. Updates might be sporadic, but they will happen. Everything’s planned out, just a matter of putting it on the screen.

**I can guilt-trip with the best of ‘em. Or just pester. We’ll get there!**

* * *

Gotham city is known for its nightlife. Not the clubs, or the bars, or even the old theatre that still has its original furnishings and runs black-and-whites on Thursdays. No. It’s known for madmen and people who think they can fly and are hopeless fucking idealists.

Y’know, considering they’ve got actual, comic-book-type superheroes, they’ve got a shit-ton of crime. Seriously, when your city has a segment called ‘Crime Alley’, you’ve got a problem.

Hilariously, Crime Alley and the surrounding area has fewer masked nuts than the rest of the city. Oh, they’re around, but the odds of stepping out for a smoke and being incinerated by Firefly or somethin’ are pretty low. Hell, the crime rate in general is…not that bad. Considering.

Jason Todd wouldn’t mind a fucking thank-you for that, by the way, seeing as it’s his fine ass on the line every night.

He’s in a warehouse now, up in the rafters (he’s no Bat, but tactical advantage an’ all), trying not to get splinters in said ass and listening to the traffic. There’s a light drizzle that makes everything sound static-y and he’s glad he found a spot indoors rather than out. Even if it’s dusty up here and he accidentally put his hand in a spider web. Good thing it’s dark an’ empty, ‘cause the Red Hood should not be seen flailing frantically to remove a spider web from his fingers.

Shut up. Could’ve been a black widow, **jeeze**.

He cracks his knuckles and wonders how much longer he’ll have to be here. Supposedly there’s gonna be a drug trade, which would be acceptable if it involved his people and not the asshole letting their dealers hang around schoolyards. But alas, it involves the asshole, so lessons will be taught tonight.

Probably involving bloodshed and screaming and body bags, which would be regrettable if these little fuckers wouldn’t be right back on the playground the minute he turned around.

The doors open and he perks up, looking forward to the warmth of adrenaline. There’s not too many-probably tryin’ not to attract attention. He counts…three? That’s it? You’re kidding…wait, wait, there’s the rest. Six.

Eh. He’ll wait up here, see what these gentlemen have to say, and pick ‘em off. Maybe let a couple of ‘em run away, send word to their boss. It’s only fair to send a ‘welcome to Crime Alley, your friendly neighborhood Red Hood requests that you not deal to children!’ He has **manners** , after all.

He adjusts his position on the beam, and leans forward as much as is safe. It’d be embarrassing to topple off…he might let them kill him then, spare himself the painful memories.

He loves warehouses. Everything echoes and it’s just so **easy** to eavesdrop.

“Fuckin’ hot.” Yeah, no shit. It’s Gotham. At night. In a warehouse. **In June.** Of course it’s fuckin’ hot. “Hate this city.”

“Yeah, yeah, suck it up. It’s not that bad.”

He likes this one. No bitching, always a good quality.

“Couldn’t we have done this somewhere with an air conditioner?”

“Like where, huh? Batman never comes down this way-” That’s not strictly true. “-and the costumed freaks don’t, either.”

“What the fuck, man?” Ah, a question he asks himself on a fairly regular basis. Forget ‘what is the meaning of life’, ‘what the fuck, man’ is the true mystery of the universe. “There’s more?”

More? One, this guy’s not a native, that’s obvious. Two, he’s met someone already. Boss? This isn’t Penguin’s style, but…

“You live under a rock?”

“Bite me.”

“Yeah, there’s more. Dumbass.” Thug Two slaps Thug One upside the head. “But they like Bats more than drugs, so they’re not here.”

Ain’t that the truth. Bruce always did attract the weirdoes…it’s for the best that he doesn’t date. He’d probably get one of the girls from _Snapped_ or somethin’.

Heh. That might be kinda funny. Batman vs. a garden-variety obsessive.

“Shut up, ya old women.” He doesn’t like this one. He’s been here too long, sounds like-that particular paranoid tone is a Gotham City Exclusive. He **knows** things. “Let’s get this shit done and get out.”

The others are moving quickly, carting boxes and not talking. That’s unfortunate.

Oh, well. He sighs and moves again, easing into a better position to draw his rifle. Ones by the door first-he doesn’t want to chase them down tonight-and then he’ll work inward. He’ll let Thugs One and Two live, he thinks, unless they shoot at him-they’ll be good messengers.

They don’t even know what hit them. He’s gotten two before the shouting starts, and two more before Thugs One and Two start scanning the rafters for him. Time to move.

He swings to another beam, this one directly above the door, and fires again before dropping down.

“Thought you said Batman didn’t come here!”

Seriously. Did he just. That’s **hurtful**.

Jason takes back everything vaguely complimentary he’s ever thought about Thug One and makes his way towards him, intending to teach the little punk the difference between Bats and Hoods. Fuckin’ dumbass, why the hell is he here without a ‘native vigilante’ guide, huh? Seriously?

“That’s not Batman, you stupid bitch, now run!”

Thank you, Thug Two. That’s appreciated.

He shoots Thug Two in the knee anyway-no hard feelings?-and closes on Thug One, slamming him into a wall and hissing, “You’re gonna wish I was the goddamn Batman.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t know-”

“Who’re you working for?” He gets crying and blubbering and it takes a broken finger to get him to stop. “Answer my question, and you might get to go to Urgent Care rather than the morgue.”

“Oh god-”

Jason presses the gun against his chin.

“Answer. My. Question.”

“Black Mask! Black Mask, please don’t kill me-”

“Don’t lie to me, Black Mask isn’t sending you idiots here without a shit-ton of backup. I’m gonna ask you one more time-who’re you working for?”

“That’s the truth, I swear! He didn’t wanna attract too much attention!”

Well. He believes **himself** , anyway. Jason’s not convinced, but…

“Where can I find him, then?”

“I dunno, I dunno, man, we only talked on the phone, I swe-earrrr…”

More crying. Jason sighs and lets him drop.

“Thanks for nothing.” He turns to Thug Two, who’s clinging to consciousness a few feet away. “You tell your boss I don’t appreciate dealin’ to kids. Got that?” Frantic nodding. “’Preciate it. Now get your friend some help. Gut shots are a real bitch.”

“What-”

**BANG!**


	25. Masks, Pt. 2

AN: Oh, the electricity mooks, with the sticks. MOTHERFUCKER, did they give me grief. We’re not gonna talk about that.

**She got me killed.**

YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH.

**It hurt.**

I have weak hands.

**Yeah, well, I was the one dying on a dirty warehouse floor, so.**

I said sorry.

**I remember you shouting the game was a fucking-**

SHHHHH.

* * *

Okay, this looks bad.

It could look worse-anyone up for hearing his tragic life’s story?-but yeah, it looks bad. And it hurts. Not like this is his first time lying on his back on a dumpster, but still. Doesn’t help that there’s a banana peel sticking to his helmet. He peels it off and scrubs half-heartedly for a minute before letting his arm fall back to its trash bag cradle.

He blames the Joker, because the Joker apparently gave him a **thing** about sticks with burn-y things on the end (who’d have thought?) and his default reaction to what turned out to be a cattle prod was **SHIT BACK UP**. He hadn’t backed up quite fast enough, and he’d ended up with electricity to the stomach and a nasty fall off the roof. Dumpsters, it turns out, are not soft landing places.

He groans and hauls himself upright. Nothing feels broken-but **fuck** is he gonna be stiff tomorrow-but the asshole with the cattle prod is going down. The hell, man? Uncalled for.

Hopefully this one lucky hit isn’t gonna encourage the rest of ‘em to get prods…that came out wrong. Or did it? His head’s rattled. This helmet is a double-edged sword. Great protection from explosions and things, hurts to smack against.

Owww.

He climbs out of the dumpster, brushing old coffee grounds and he-doesn’t- **wanna** -know off his clothes, and vows that if his gun jams from this little side trip, somebody is going to apologize. Profusely. And he might take up taxidermy, as a warning: ‘Ye Who Ruin Red Hood’s Guns Beware’. Maybe strap the guy to a stop sign…no, no, Bruce would freak out and he’s been so **good** at avoiding him lately.

Okay. His vision’s good, nothing feels like it will shatter or impale an organ or anything awful upon movement, and no way they’ve gotten far. He grapples back up and spots a little cluster booking it not far off. Bingo. He’ll just…intercept them. Show them the error of their ways. Shove that cattle prod where the sun don’t shine, maybe.

He’s never been enamored with rooftop jumping, not like Dick is, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it. Makes for impressive entrances. Makes it easy to scare the shit out of people, too.

Like now. He drops down in front of them and points a gun at the cattle prod-wielding asshole.

“I’ll get to you in a minute.”

“Oh, shit-”

“Told you not to do it, man! I fucking told you!”

The other one is ready to turn traitor and abandon his friend to his fate. Smart kid. Just makes grappling his ankle and faceplanting him that much funnier.

“What was that for?” he demands, reeling in the would-be traitor like the world’s most awkward fish. “How old are you brats, anyway?”

He’s not expecting an answer, and he doesn’t get one. He gets refusal to make eye contact (or somethin’ close to it, with the helmet) and a frantic, “I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t kill me-”

Christ. He’s bettin’…his age? Maybe? Idiots.

He wishes the mask didn’t impede his ability to rub the bridge of his nose. Oh, the price one pays…

“What were you thinking?” he asks, jerking on the line still attached to the would-be traitor’s ankle. He’s tempted to dislocate it, take the line back, but he restrains himself. For now.

Cattle prod-wielding asshole tries to pull his head away and Jason cocks the gun.

“Just doin’ a job, man, I swear, it’s nothin’ personal!”

“You sure? ‘Cuz it seemed pretty personal to me.” He gives the line another jerk. “Who hired you?” No answer. You know what, enough. He’s sick of this, he wants fucking answers, **yesterday**.

He presses the gun against the kid’s chin, feeling a little bit guilty (at least until he remembers the jolting pain of electricity) and hisses, “Answers. Now. Or I paint the alley with your goddamn **brain matter**.”

“Black Mask! Black Mask, he said he’d give us fiddy grand if we took you out please don’t kill mee-”

Fifty thousand? That’s it? Cheapass. He’s worth a hundred, easy. Oh, well…hire amateurs, job doesn’t get done.

“And where is he now?”

“I dunno, man, we were on Skype! I swear!”

The runner is trying surreptitiously to undo the line and y’know what, Jason’s just done. He’s been zapped, fallen off a roof, had his life deemed worth a measly fifty grand…this is not his day.

He gives it a quick, hard, jerk and hears the joint pop. A second later, there’s screaming. The other one backs against the wall, rambling again.

“When did you talk last?”

“Like half an hour ago!”

“Where.”

“Coffee shop, two blocks over, the crappy one that has cobwebs I’m **sorry-** ”

“I believe ya.” He clicks the safety back on and lowers the gun. “I’m nice like that. Which is why you’re gonna tell your boss that Red Hood says hi.”

“Thank you I swear I’ll never do this again I **swear-** ”

Jason refuses to feel bad for clocking him in the head with the butt of the gun.

* * *

He’s not outwardly injured, so he actually uses the door to his apartment. This…may not have been the best idea.

He’s just getting his key into the lock when the door across the hall creaks ominously.

“Bit late, isn’t it?”

He fixes his best ‘I am the picture of health’ smile on and turns around. “Hey, Mz. Melinda May.”

He can barely see her between the darkness of the hall and her apartment-just eyes. It’s…creepy.

The eyes narrow and a crooked, witchy finger pokes out of the crack in the door.

“You unharmed?”

“Ah, a couple of bruises.” It’s not a complete lie-that’s suicide. “I’m fine.”

The finger jabs at him.

“I expect you to eat a vegetable today.” she rasps. “Without ranch on it. That clear?”

He nods-ow-and scrambles for his doorknob.

“I will.”

And just like that, she retreats, door shutting with a soft _click_. Jason lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and ducks inside before she can come back.

Once the door’s locked up and the alarm reset, he slumps against it and sighs. Ow. It’s been a long day, man, a long fuckin’ day. Night. Whatever.

He plops his helmet on the table-he’ll scrub it up in a bit-and clicks on the light.

“Hello, apartment.”

The day the apartment says hi back is the day he goes back to Arkham and says, ‘please, check me in’. That is not this day, however, and he shuffles towards the bathroom, shedding weapons on the way.

Now for the fun part-body armor removal. Getting it on’s not so bad, but getting it off…oh, well. It’s either bitch about the removal or die. Dying’s never been appealing.

Well. Lately. He’ll admit to wishing for it in Arkham. But that’s different.

He shakes his head before the laughing can start and turns on the overly-bright bathroom light. Ahh. Sterile white with a touch of calming blue.

Okay. He can do this, maybe this time without losing his balance and falling into the shower and pissing off every neighbor he has.

(That had been…awkward.)

He is…mostly successful. He does teeter a bit trying to go the lazy route and skip a couple’a straps, but he manages to redirect to his fall against the sink rather than into the shower. He counts that as a win.

Ow. The prod didn’t leave a mark, but his crash into the dumpster did-there’s a neat pattern of blossoming bruises climbing up his back and curving gently around his ribcage and arms. That’s gonna be **black** in the morning, he can just **tell.**

He’s tempted to go find the assholes and pay this back in full, he really is.

Well, at least he doesn’t appear to be in any immediate danger of bleeding out or otherwise suffering some horrendous and sudden death. It’s the little things, y’know…wow, that might be an imprint of his spine. Cool. Ow, but cool.

He drops his gear in a pile on the tiles-he’ll get to it in a minute-and does some more twisting to see what all he’ll have to avoid knocking against counter edges. Uh…everything. Literally everything. Maybe he’ll invest in a suit of bubble wrap…no, no, his self-control is dismal. He’d pop it all before getting out the door.

Damn.

On the bright side, the only thing that really doesn’t wanna come off his armor is the obscene amount of coffee grounds. They’ve gotten into every tiny little crevice they can find and by the time he gets them all out, his fingers feel stained.

Black Mask…he’s surprised the asshole hasn’t sent swarms of people after him. That’s more his style, to release a never-ending stream of people to wear him down and then show up to finish him off himself. This is…weird. Almost **subtle**.

Heh. He’s probably too scared to take risks.

Well, he should’ve taken them anyway. All he’s done now is picked a fight he can’t win. Y’know, Jason’s always wondered if his face is really…er…stuck like that. Now’s as good a time as any to find out.


	26. Masks, Pt. 3

AN: **Uh…Dick’s still…upset…with me about the breadstick thing. You guys love me, right? You don’t want me to die horribly? Of course you don’t! So if you see him, and he asks, tell him…uh…I’m dead. Yup. You saw the whole thing. I was…surrounded by…shit, um…ninjas! Yeah, yeah, ninjas. Shit-ton of ninjas. I did my best, but there were too many, and they dismembered me and threw my remains in the river. But like, weeks ago, so there’s no point in dredging it. Nothin’ to be found. Terrible tragedy. Make it convincing, dammit. Cry if you have to. Maybe throw in, like, an old grandma I was rescuing or something.-J.**

* * *

Ow.

No, seriously, holy **shit** , ow. He doesn’t know what happened, but everything hurts.

Punk kids…if he sees them again, they’re gonna pay for this.

Jason forces his aching limbs to haul him out of bed and wishes, not for the first time, that he had an electric blanket. He just keeps forgetting…oh, **fuck**. Moving that way was a poor choice.

Whatever. Coffee. Coffee and maybe a hot towel, at least…those little shits, who taught them manners, **jeeze** …

He slumps backwards onto a chair, arm curled between his ribs and the cold, cheap wood, and listens to the outside. Traffic, lotta traffic. S’it a shopping day or something?

Eh, whatever. As long as nobody breaks out of Arkham and decides to blow up a mall, he really doesn’t care.

Okay. Game plan. Maybe it’s Black Mask, maybe he’s just the name people know best, but some asshole tried to have him killed last night and that’s not gonna fly. He didn’t escape from the Joker just be taken out by some guy with a cattle prod. And certainly not for a measly fifty thousand. Sheesh.

Coffee shop first, he’s thinking. The French Maid-that really is the name, has been since forever-gets all kinds. Has surprisingly good wi-fi, considering it’s the shadiest coffee shop known to man. Maybe somebody noticed something, or heard something, or whatever.

He twists to see what time it is, remembers what a bad idea that is, and amends his plans for the day. First stop is the corner drugstore, get one of those sticky hot-packs.

* * *

The French Maid, despite the name and the fact that it’s in Crime Alley and is horribly seedy on its own, gets a lot of business. But there is a table right by the front window that is never empty-at least, not when Jason drops by.

Sitting at this table are what Jason has dubbed the Caffeinated Three. He thinks they live here. They’re never **not** here, anyway-they huddle at their table, laptops glowing, and communicate in little hisses. He’s pretty sure that if he tries to take a laptop, they’ll all morph into strange lizardmen and kill him.

Heh. He should test that someday. Just for shits ‘n giggles. There’s worse ways to die, right?

Potential lizardmen or not, if you wanna know somethin’, go to them. They can be bribed with awe and espresso. That, and sometimes listening to their latest Batman Conspiracy Theory ™. God, if Jason has to hear one more idea about ‘Batman is from another dimension!’, he’s going to give Bruce a mental Fuck Off and rat him out, just to stop the insanity.

He parks his bike near the sidewalk and strolls in, steals a chair from another table, and settles down next to…uh…Loki Shirt.

“Hello, boys.”

“Hood.” they chorus. That’s creepy. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy.” He gets espresso shots for them and a small black for himself and finds the most comfortable position for the bruises. “Got some questions for you guys.”

Three index fingers flick up and the next few minutes are filled with awkward silence and the tapping of keys. Coffee arrives and three hands shoot out, drawing the little cups closer to the laptops. Jason’s expecting a chorus of ‘my preciousssss’ and is a little disappointed when it doesn’t come.

The typing finally stops and the one across from him-Stars Wars Decal-raises his head and blinks.

“You look like shit.”

One, he can’t prove that, and two, he does not.

“Thanks.”

“Mm. What did you want to talk to us about?”

“Black Mask.” The other two look up at that. “Had a run-in with some employees of his last night, supposedly. Now, since you guys know everything that goes on down here, I thought I’d come to you.”

“Black Mask…” Star Wars Decal muses. “Now _that_ is a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

“You’re too young to make the Obi-Wan thing work.” Truth hurts, can’t be helped. “Do you know anything or not?”

The other two snicker. Ouch. Jason will bet legally obtained money that there’ll be squabbling when he leaves. Oh, to be a fly on that wall…

“There were Skypers, three tables away.” Loki Shirt says absently. “Last night. Their screen was big, but it was all black. Dark room or something.”

Not helpful. Also, not Black Mask’s usual style. Blackie…well…he likes to be seen. He’s not a shadow worker. But hey, maybe he’s learning about this little thing called ‘don’t draw attention to yourself’. Stranger things have happened.

“How long were they here?”

“Thirty minutes and twenty-nine seconds.”

Okay, that’s really creepy and he’s now convinced the only reason they haven’t gone for world domination is because they’re lazy.

Not that he’s complaining.

“You didn’t overhear anything, did you?”

Three empty glasses hit the middle of the table in response.

* * *

It’s raining.

That’s nothing new. It’s Gotham. It’s either raining or threatening to rain, and when there’s sunshine everyone screams “THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH”.

No matter how used to the rain he is, summer rain is a special kind of evil. It’s hot ‘n humid and all the rain does is make the heat wet. It might make him a bad person (like it matters), but sometimes he wishes Mr. Freeze would escape, give them all a respite.

What? He’s not wishing for deaths, just less heat. Besides, it’s Gotham. Anyone dumb enough to frolic outside after an Arkham breakout is takin’ their chances. (Like he didn’t play in Freeze-caused snow as a kid…ah, good times.)

Still, though. It’s hot. And humid. And this helmet is great and all, but…hot. Very hot. He thinks his hair might be working its way towards ‘comic book flatness’. He can guarantee that when he pulls this thing off later, it’s going to be gross.

He slumps against the bricks, feeling them press into bruises that don’t want to be pressed into, and hopes nothing happens in fifteen minutes. He wants to go home, take a cool shower, go to bed. Maybe that’s selfish, but it’s been a dead fuckin’ night and hey, somebody tried to kill him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Yeah, that’s a cop-out and he knows it. But still. It’s hot, nothing’s happening, and he’s **tired.**

He hauls himself up, intending to do one last sweep before calling it a night, when he spots a flash of pink amongst the brown and gray.

Wait, what?

He really needs to get some little windshield wipers for this thing…

Yup. Pink. A man in a pink jacket, standing under an awning across the street. Despite the fact that it’s raining and dark, Jason thinks he’s smiling at him. Which is ridiculous. He’s probably just…a smiley person. Maybe he got hit by an early strain of Joker Gas-that shit left side effects, ‘cuz nobody knew what to do with it.

Brr.

Things get weird. Pink Jacket continues to smile, and, like he knows Jason’s seen him, he lifts a hand and waves. Just a little one, a Queen-wave.

O-kay…

Yeah, Jason’s just gonna…go. Find somewhere darker and with more distance between him and this weird fanboy.

What? He learned his lesson last time-charging in blindly gets you tortured for months and mentally shattered. Hellova way to learn a lesson, but it stuck. If he forgets his own name, he’ll remember it just fine. That, and ‘make your bed in the morning’.

(Alfred always knows. He forgot a few days ago and felt irrational dread for the twenty minutes it took to remember.)

He circles around to a new fire escape down the street. Gives him a good view of Pink Jacket without being in his immediate line of vision.

He’ll admit it. This guy’s creeping him out. Not the ‘will be force-fed healthy food’ kinda creepy, but more ‘wears skins as dresses’ kind.

Brr.

The guy eventually goes into the store. Jason lingers, just to make sure he’s not doing something awful (would explain the creeped out feeling, though), but nothing happens. He buys a pack of chips or whatever and goes on down the street. Huh. Garden-variety weirdo. Maybe he’s an internet fanboy. Jason’s seen the forums. Once. Once was enough. He’d clicked right the hell out when he’d stumbled upon ‘Ivy’s plants’ and ‘mpreg’.

He has enough mental problems, thanks. No need to add to that.

He follows Pink Jacket, keeping his distance and hoping this isn’t a Bad Idea ™, until the guy lets himself into a little apartment not far from Jason’s own. No screams of terror emit from the premises, and he leaves to do one last sweep and head home for the night.


	27. Masks, Pt. 4

AN: **I swear, if any of you guys know somethin' and DON'T WARN ME, I'm not saving you if you get mugged. I refuse. And I'll probably be dead, so I can't help you anyway. Serves you right.**

Aww, they can't! They don't know everything. Only I do.

**Be a noisy peanut gallery! Don't lemme get shot in the back or something!**

Y'all be quiet, I'm not gonna shoot him. Fatally. Right now.

**I DON'T WANNA DIIIIIIIIE.**

Oh my god, don't be dramatic.

**I'll know which of you assholes don't tell me things. I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP.**

If they kidnap you and keep you in a basement, it's your own fault.

**Really. You really went there.**

Not on purpose. But while we're there, it's true. (Please don't kidnap him and keep him in a basement, I still need him to finish the story.)

* * *

Jason's lying on his stomach, hot-pad-thing stuck to the worst of the bruises on his back, when his phone beeps. No. He's not home...no, better. He's dead. Yup. Dead as a doornail, never to look at his phone again.

It beeps again and he groans, flails for it, and knocks it off the nightstand. Damn phone, sabotaging his attempts at healing...the one time he tries to be responsible, c'mon...

He hangs off the bed, blood rushing to his head and muscles stretching unhappily, and plucks the little saboteur from the floor. What the hell...

A string of numbers blinks at him from the screen and he squints, wills them to unblur. 555...uh...4659...ohh. Okay. Not spam, just a contact.

He flips the phone open to see the text.

**Yo, wrd on da st is sum1 wants ur hood.**

It takes him a minute to decipher that (proper spelling, people, texting ain't Twitter), and another minute to force stiff fingers to tap out a reply.

**Any word on who?**

He puts the phone on vibrate and hides his face in his pillow again, semi-hoping that Rooster passes out and doesn't get back to him 'til later.

The phone doesn't buzz and he reaches back to adjust the heating thingy, moves it to a deep bruise between his shoulders. Ow...he's good, he's good...there. Right there.

He's just melting back into a comfortable state of existence when the phone buzzes angrily near his hand. No. Noooo. It's not that he doesn't appreciate it, it's just...now? Really? Not half an hour later?

Oh, well. He doesn't pay people for nothin'. Though, really, this isn't news. There's always someone that wants him dead. The police, last he heard, have an unofficial 'shoot on sight' order.

**Sum guys lookin for ya. Says he wants to eat ur face. Dont think he means the fun makeout way.**

Nngh. He likes his face where it is. He's suffered enough facial damage.

**It's not Croc, right?**

Hey, when you've burned your brain out on crack, sometimes you need a poke about things like that. He's pretty sure Croc doesn't have anything against him (well, no more than anyone else), and he doesn't do merc work anymore. Nobody's stupid enough to get near him.

Rooster's faster about the reply this time-wakin' up a little more?

**Nah. Pink jacket. Lotta knives.**

Pink jacket? Okay, this just got interesting. He suspects he may have dodged a (potentially literal) bullet last night.

**Anything else?**

**Nope.**

**Check your bank account Friday for a bonus.**

**Tnx.**

He shoves his phone away from him and closes his eyes again. He hasn't heard of any pink-jacket-clad knife-wielding psychos, but that doesn't mean anything. New players pop up all the time. It's Gotham, everybody's committed a crime at some point.

Makes him wonder what Pink Jacket was doing last night. Observation? Or just making sure Jason got a look at him? Maybe he's goin' for the big leagues, the ones that are in it for sport more than money.

Brr.

Well, that's great, but he's got another thing comin'. You have to be good to take out the Red Hood, and you'd better make it quick. Whatever doesn't kill him just pisses him off. Like Michael Freaking Myers.

He'll do a little nosing around, see what he can find about this pink jacket guy. Somebody's gotta know something.

Later. He wants to enjoy his heating pack.

* * *

FreakWatch (yeah, it's a thing, the internet is amazing) brings up nothing on Pink Jacket. Jason's not surprised, but it was worth a look. Besides, checking today means he got a look at the new picture they have for Scarecrow. Crane's gonna be pissed if he sees it. Hopefully whoever changed it also changed their name. And maybe left town.

#OnlyInGotham, however, brings up a few sightings of Pink Jacket. Most of them are nothing interesting, but one sticks out-something about '#OnlyinGotham do you see a guy eating someone's face in an alley'.

O-kay, then. That's...wow. Um. Guess maybe Pink Jacket's not screwing around. Good to know.

He keeps scrolling while getting ready for work. There's not much-certainly nothing else involving eaten faces, but Jason's not discounting it. It's Gotham, they have a plant lady. Cannibal assassins are nowhere near impossible. Or even implausible.

He'll have to ask around. No way in hell did he survive the Joker just to get his face eaten.

He leaves through the window, takes the fire escape to the ground, and heads for his bike. There's a...note. Parking ticket? Did some asshole give him a fucking parking ticket? Oh, he doesn't **think** so, he is in a spot like a decent law-abiding citizen, if this a parking ticket he's gonna be pissed...

It's not a parking ticket. It's cheap hotel stationary. Great.

He unfolds it and finds unfamiliar loopy handwriting. Y'know what...hang on.

He takes several steps away from the bike (literally every villain here leaves notes that say 'BOOM!' on their bombs). There. Better.

 _Mister Hood,_ the note reads, _I look forward to meeting in person._

That's all it says. Jason frowns, flips it over a few times in hopes of making more words appear, and goes to inspect his bike. Nothing. It's exactly the same as he left it last night, not even a smudge to be found.

Weird.

Weird and **creepy** , somebody knows where he lives. He's thinking Pink Jacket. That wave, last night? Nobody waves at him. Sure, sometimes he'll find little notes or first-aid kits, sometimes a bag of cookies or whatever, but no waving.

Should he...no, no, right now, he can maybe try to work this as a 'parked my bike here, that's it'. Going back inside? That'll just prove it. He doesn't like it, but it's the best choice he's got right now.

He tucks the note into his pocket, gives the bike one last inspection, and risks putting the key in the ignition. Nothing horrible happens.

All right. He's got a jackass to catch. Whoever this guy is, he's in **way** over his head.

* * *

Usually he'd ask one of his more connected informants, but a pink jacket's pretty distinct, and besides, it's been a while since he's had a chance to talk to Cherry.

That's not her name-her name's actually Jennifer-but she's had her fair share of, ah, persistent customers, and unless there's a closed door and an empty room, she sticks to Cherry when she's working. Jason can't blame her.

"Heya, Red."

"Hey." He came prepared with offerings of Snapple and Oreos. Weird combination, but he's long since accepted that are things he will never understand. "Got a few minutes?"

"For you, hon? Always- **is that Snapple**."

He would consider denying it if he had a death wish, just to see what would happen. Would there be tears? Or would she just murder him and pry the bottle from his stiffening fingers? The world will never know.

"And Oreos." he says brightly, holding them a little ways away from any vital organs just in case. "Just for you."

The smile she gives him could rival one of Dick's all-is-right-with-the-world ones. Off to a good start.

They find a park bench and once she's downed half the Snapple and opened the Oreos, she turns to him.

"Whatcha need?"

"You seen a guy in a pink jacket? I'm talkin' bright pink here, hard to miss."

"Anything else you can give me?"

"Uh-uh."

She twists an Oreo apart and chews on the plain cookie half.

"Maybe? I dunno if it's your guy, but I saw a man with a pink jacket on...maybe Wednesday? At the Circle K across from me. Real fancy, had his hair gelled so bad it was a blur."

"When?"

She gives him an exasperated look and gestures.

"Do you see a clock on me? I don't know. Maybe eleven-it was before rush hour, anyway."

'Rush hour' being...three-ish. Less chance of nosey cops.

"Thanks."

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing yet."

"Red..."

"Nothing to me! Honest. Just waved at me."

"Weird." She pats the side of his helmet and stands up. "Don't do anything stupid."

That's insulting. He never does stupid things.

Okay, so maybe sometimes, but only when he's out of options!

He scowls anyway and apparently she can tell, because she laughs at him and says, "Thanks for the snack, Red. Be safe."

Humph.

He pays her and leaves. That was...somewhat...helpful. Maybe the Circle K guy will have something-people always talk to the clerks. They have somethin' against awkward silences.

What time is it...one-thirty. Shift changes at midnight for that location, and today's Tuesday anyway, so he'll have to drop in tomorrow and hope for the best.

 

 


	28. Masks, Pt. 5

AN: **It's ridiculously easy to not be noticed, guys. Big sunglasses and a hoodie, that's all. Then again, Gotham has so much weird shit that you literally have to be like, on fire before somebody looks twice at ya.-J.**

* * *

The Circle K guy pulls a gun on him the minute he walks through the door.

"Not today, asshole!"

Nngh. Can Jason disarm the guy? Probably. Can he do it before the guy gets a shot off? Probably not. And while he can (usually) dodge, other people can't and while the odds of it hitting a scumbag are high, because **Gotham** , they're not one hundred percent.

"I'm not gonna hurt ya." **Unless you turn out to deserve it.** "I just have some questions, okay? Maybe, uh, put that down before you hurt somebody. Or yourself."

The clerk's pale but his hands are steady. Well, at least there's less of a chance of 'accidental shooting'.

"I'm callin' the cops!"

Oh, come on! He hasn't done anything! Today. To this individual.

Maybe he should've come in without the helmet, but...but...

"I just wanna ask some questions, okay? Literally, that's all. And buy some cigarettes."

The clerk looks zero percent convinced, but the gun goes down. A little. He risks taking a few steps forward and it doesn't come back up.

"I'm lookin' for a guy that was in here last Wednesday, 'round eleven? Pink jacket, real hard to miss."

"Um..."

While the clerk-Sam, the name tag says-tries to stop freaking out and remember, Jason wanders into the candy aisle. Somewhere, Alfred is stricken with sudden, unexplainable exasperation. Sorry, Alfie-oh, hey, mini Reese's!

"Y-yeah, he was really kinda..." He makes a gesture that Jason reads as 'I don't want to trash talk the customers, but this guy was a fuckin' loon'. He gets it. "Memorable."

There's so many ways that could be taken. Jason's suspecting Sam means 'likely to wear me as a vest'.

"What do you remember?"

"He, uh..." Sam swallows a few times and finally puts the gun back under the counter. "He had a pink jacket, like you said. And, uh, some of his hair was pink. Like, a streak. And his teeth were..." More frantic swallowing and Jason starts to wonder if he's going to have a panic attack. "Sharp. Fuckin' filed."

Okay. That's...he's going to take that thing about face-eating a little more seriously now.

"Did he talk to you?"

Sam shakes his head so fast his hair becomes a blur.

"Nah-uh. Just, uh...grinned. And...lingered."

Jason glances at the security camera.

"Got any footage?"

"I c-can't..."

He doesn't wanna traumatize the guy. But sometimes sacrifices have to be made.

"I'm asking nicely."

"Lemme see."

Sorry for any nightmares you might have, Sam.

Sam makes a slightly hysterical noise (he's not local, locals would either do it or shoot at him or at least tell him to fuck off) and ducks into the back room. Jason's pretty sure he won't call the cops. He might, sure, but that carries the (nonexistent) risk that the big, bad Red Hood will stalk him for all eternity.

Actually, if the cops are called, Jason **will** stalk him. The guy so much as jaywalks, he'll be there, lurking by the nearest crosswalk to throw the fear of a painful death into him.

"O-okay, I brought it up, I brought it up, it's on pause, just-"

"I think I can get it, thanks."

Sure enough, the date on the screen is correct. Jason hits play.

On screen, there's a long line. A few minutes pass and then the door opens and Pink Jacket saunters in. Cocky bastard. He's glad of that-it'll be more fun to take him down a peg or three.

Sure enough, Pink Jacket lingers. He's not even pretending to browse, just leans up against a display and watches the throng of people. It's creepy, predatory. The line dwindles and finally the last person exits, leaving Sam alone with Pink Jacket.

Sam's lips move in a 'can I help you?' and Pink Jacket grins. Yeah. Those teeth are filed down to points and there's dark patches in his mouth that Jason wants to believe are caused by the grainy camera.

Five minutes pass, and Pink Jacket finally picks up a lighter and what looks like a pack of jerky. He winks at the camera-that wasn't an accident, no fucking way was that an accident-and saunters back out.

Jason sticks a flash drive in the port (first try, suck it USB!) and moves the file onto it. He doesn't think there's much to be had, but it's what he's got at the moment. That little wink, no way was that anything but a 'heya, Red Hood'. No **way**.

Sam is back at the register, hands gripping the counter hard enough to make the bones visible. Jason tosses his mini Reese's up, requests a pack of Marlboro Blacks, and doesn't mention the flash drive in his belt.

"Thanks for the help."

"Um. Okay. You're, uh, welcome?"

Yeah, not local. He'll learn.

"See ya around."

That may not have been the best thing to say, he thinks, when Sam goes absolutely **green**. Oops. Uh...you know what, he's just gonna go before he makes this worse.

* * *

He's not gonna lie-he's a little more cautious than usual letting himself into his apartment, a little more concerned about traps and intruders. All is well, though, and he takes his laptop to bed with him to run over the video again. May as well be comfy. He's not Bruce, for fuck's sake-why sit in a dramatic chair when you can lay on a bed to work?

**An' Alfie accuses me of being dramatic...**

He pops a Reese's in his mouth and hits play, looking for...he's not sure, really. Anything of interest.

He doesn't get anything. The only thing he didn't notice the first time around is that Pink Jacket alternates between grinning at Sam and grinning at the security camera.

Okay, then.

**You've got my attention, asshole, so come on out and play.**

It's annoying. There, he said it. It's annoying that this guy clearly knows him, but that Jason doesn't even have a name to mock. Bullshit, is what this is, straight-up bullshit.

And yeah, it's a little unsettling. Makes him wonder if he'll fall asleep and wake up to find Pink Jacket gnawing on his throat. That's not gonna happen, because nobody's quiet enough to get in here without waking him, but still.

As if he needs the added dose of paranoia...god, he should sign up for 'how much stress can a person function with?' studies, get some easy cash.

He shoves the laptop away, sticks a hot pack on his spine ( **finally** that's goin' away) and buries his face in the pillow. He's tired 'n sore and short of Pink Jacket breaking in, he doubts he'll find him tonight.

Tomorrow, though, he'll even up the playing field. This is gonna be good.

 

 


	29. Worry About You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alllllmost done with the next bit of ‘Masks’, but fight scenes are *hard*, so this happened instead. Think of it as a…commercial break.
> 
> I gleefully took inspiration, in part, from the film of Stephen King’s '1408' and a little smidge from 'Kingdom Hospital'. The title comes from the Ivy song of that name, which was used in Kingdom’s opening credits. Come, frolic through the fields of angst!

Jason is in Bruce’s room.

Well. Not really. Jason’s dead, and it’s obvious-he’s beaten and bloody, looking exactly as he had in that damned tape. But he’s here all the same, thrown over the antique chair Mother always loved, grinning at him through cracked lips.

“Time to get up, B, Alfie’ll be pissed if you skip breakfast again.”

Bruce blinks at him. That usually gets him to disappear, but not this time.

He finds he doesn’t mind.

“Come oooon, Bruce, I know old people need their sleep, but it’s like, noon.”

He went to bed two hours ago.

“Oh my god. I’m fucking **dead** and I still have to save you from Alfred. You suck.” The hallucination (ghost) gets up and drags itself over to the bed, leaving a trail of blood behind it. “Get up. Get up. Get up.”

He ignores it. It hurts, but not responding is the only solution.

Jason (not Jason, Jason’s dead) makes an exasperated noise.

“I can annoy you all day, old man. Got nothin’ better to do. Sooo…” He takes a deep breath (doesn’t, can’t). “Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce.”

He gets up. Jason flops back on the bed with a **squelch** , blood smearing on the sheets. Bruce resolutely doesn’t look at him.

He may as well go down for breakfast.

* * *

Jason doesn’t reappear until the afternoon. Bruce looks up from his computer and he’s…there, in the office, sprawled across the sofa like he used to do when he was alive. A steady puddle of blood forms beneath him.

“B, m’bored.” Pause. “Like, I could die of boredom…oh. Wait.” He fingers the bullet hole in his chest, pulls out a shard of bone. “Shit…B, I need a new thing. What do I say now?”

“Cross over from boredom.” he suggests, realizing too late that acknowledging Jason’s nonexistence is a red flag for **batshit fucking crazy**.

It’s almost worth it when Jay laughs, even though said laugh devolves into wet choking that brings blood bubbling up through his lips, dripping down his chin. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“’Kay. I could cross over from boredom.”

Bruce eyes his hand, dangling limply off the couch, and says nothing. A minute later, the door opens and when he glances back at the couch, Jason’s gone.

The bloodstain isn’t.

* * *

“Why didn’t you find me?”

Bruce adjusts his position on the gargoyle. It’s harder to ignore Jason now, when he’s crouched on an adjacent one, always out of the corner of his eye.

Always where he used to be.

“Did you even look for me?”

Bruce focuses his attention on one of Penguin’s men in the street below. Jason flicks a batarang at the gargoyle.

“I never stopped thinking you’d come. Even when Joker killed me, I thought you’d come.” He flops down, upper body stretched precariously over the edge. “Wasn’t I good enough for you?”

“Jason.” No. No. Do not respond. Abort. “I’m…sorry.”

“Then pull me up.” And Bruce looks over to find him hanging off the gargoyle, tool belt gone, fingers slipping. “I’m right here.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. It’s the only way to make this stop.

“Bruce, _please_.”

Bruce turns his head away, doesn’t watch as the hallucination’s fingers scrabble and finally slip.

Jason’s body hits a car below. The car doesn’t notice.

* * *

Bruce stumbles out of the cave at five in the morning. It was a long night, a reckless night (too many stupid risks but he’s fine, a few more bumps and bruises than normal but it’s no less than he deserves), and he’s hoping for a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

The front door opens and closes and **god, what now?**

No one comes. No Alfred, announcing a visitor, and no one else, either. But he heard the door…

Suddenly very suspicious, he goes into the hall.

It’s Jason, and he’s about to dismiss it as another hallucination when he really **looks** at him. He’s in an orange jumpsuit (Arkham uniform?) now, and it doesn’t fit him but maybe…god…

“Jason?”

He looks up from his feet (bloody, no shoes) and whispers, “M’back.”

Then he goes down **fast** and Bruce is across the hall to catch him. He’s warm (too warm, fever-hot) and solid (fragile) but it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter he’s not…he…

“Jay.” he breathes, burying his face in the boy’s hair. “Jay, my god, my god…you…”

Jason starts to cough, desperate, wet hacks and he must’ve survived the shot but Joker wouldn’t have-shit. Shit, they need a hospital, Alfred-

He struggles up and he’s so light now, Jesus…okay. Okay, downstairs, cave, he can fix this, it’s better now.

“I’ve got you.” he murmurs. “You’re okay, we’ll fix this, Jay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“You let him kill me.” Jason mumbles and Bruce **freezes** , doesn’t want to look down. He’s here. He’s **here** , he’s delirious or something, that’s all.

One of his hands slips off his chest and Bruce looks at the green-gloved thing with growing horror. No. No, no, he was here, he **is** here, he-

“S’your fault.” he whispers. “B, I…” He chokes, whines. _“It hurt.”_

His head drops back with the sickening looseness of the freshly dead, and Bruce finally looks down. That damned Robin uniform, torn and bloodied, looks up at him. He wants to drop him, (he’s not here, he’s dead, he’s not here) but…

But he can’t.

* * *

Bruce doesn’t see him after Tim comes. Not until the Joker starts paying little visits-lounging on the piano seat, commenting on the books in Bruce’s office, fiddling with the answering machines.

He only ever sees Jason once, then, at night in his room. He’s on his knees, the Joker’s fingers keeping his head up so he can hold a knife, shiny and sharp, to his throat.

“Bruce, _please_.” Tears streak down his face, mixing with blood and dirt. “Don’t let me die.”

The Joker laughs, shoves Jason onto the carpet. He doesn’t get up, and there’s nothing Bruce can do when the Joker goes at him with a crowbar.

Jason’s choked-off pleas linger in his ears for the rest of the night.

* * *

“B. Bruce. Broody McBroodstein.” The bed shakes as someone kicks it. “Rise and shine, asshole.”

Aches, that’s what registers first. The deep echoes that come from heavy muscle spasms. Then things fall back into place-some sort of new drug, helped boost memory, had the nasty side effects of enhanced rage and a higher pain tolerance. Popular in street gangs, mostly for the higher pain tolerance. He’d been hit with a dose last night and…

“F’you don’t wake up, I’m calling Alfie to come and tell you he’s disappointed in you.”

Nngh?

The bed is not his-it feels different, and when he rolls over he rams his elbow into the wall. Whoever’s kicking the bed bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god, B, you’re a human disaster. How do you save Gotham?”

“Jason?”

“Uh-huh. You were here freaking out when I got in this morning. I think you tried to hug me.” There’s a pause. “Or it was a really, really sloppy attempted punch. I don’t know.” He hears blinds being pulled and sunlight hits him in the face. “Time to get up.”

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Doesn’t want to see the bloodied remains of his son.

“Bruce? You, uh, okay over there?”

He doesn’t have a choice, does he.

He looks. Jason’s…not Robin. No blood, no dangling broken arm. A few bruises-fingers around his neck that make Bruce worry-but he looks fine. Sweats and a Marvin Martian shirt and striped, fluffy socks.

“B?” He sounds…concerned. “I don’t really need to call Alfie, do I?”

“No.” he manages to grind out. “I’m fine, Jason.”

“Yeah, you say that, but you’re lookin’ at me like you’ve seen a ghost.” He pauses, quirks a grin. “Which, yeah, okay, but-”

**“Don’t.”**

“What? S’not like I actually died. Jeeze, old man, lighten up.” He grunts and sits up, feels things pull. Jason gives him a **look.** “Does this have anything to do with the attempted hug slash punch?”

He has the right to remain silent and he intends to make full use of it. Jason huffs at him and walks away. Bruce hears cabinets opening.

He gets up, gives his head a minute to stop swaying, and takes note of himself. He remembers flashes of crunching bones and screams, but not much else. He’ll need to check. To…to make sure. He’s sure nothing happened, but…

Jason comes back in with mugs of coffee.

“I’d ask how you knew where this place was, but I’m guessing Babs.”

Dick, actually, but what tentative peace they all have might be preserved if he doesn’t say so. Barbara won’t mind being thrown under the bus, he’s sure.

He takes a sip rather than say anything, sets the mug down, and pulls Jason into a hug. He makes a noise of alarm that Bruce ignores.

“Uh, B? What are you doing? Is someone dead? Are you dying?”

Ouch.

“No, Jay.” He grew up, didn’t he? Bruce always had him pegged as the kid that would be four feet tall for years and years and then suddenly shoot up out of nowhere. “I’m just…glad you’re still with us.”

“Oh.” There’s a hesitant pat on his shoulder. “Um, thanks? I guess?”

And the Marvin Martian shirt and sweats **stay** that way, don’t change into a bloody uniform. Or if they do, Bruce doesn’t notice this time.

THE END


	30. Masks, Pt. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn’t plan for this guy. I was rewatching Gotham and got the grabby hands and here we are. He’s just so creepy, I couldn’t resist. I have NEVER written him before, though, so…adventure? I guess? I dunno, fight scenes are hard, my sleep-deprived ass wanted to make this one harder for myself. That probably says something…oh, well.

This is not good.

It’s not his fault this time! Honest! He planned for guns. Knives. **Teeth.** He did not plan for a flail! Where did that thing even come from?

He rolls under a car and questions his life choices. Again.

**An hour earlier…**

Jason’s settled on a more sheltered rooftop, becoming steadily more annoyed by the small **taptaptaptap** of tiny raindrops on his helmet. He’s mostly out of the way of the water, but the wind’s picking up and blowing it under the little outcropping.

Storm’s movin’ in, has been all day, but it’s only in the last forty minutes or so that the wind’s gotten vicious, sweeping up under his jacket and trying its damndest to get his hood off. He’s zipped it up and crossed his arms over his chest, but now he’s getting stiff.

Humph.

He’s here because this location doesn’t have too many civilians and because his current vantage point is visible to anyone looking. Most people **don’t** look, though, which means that he can huddle up here without being pestered or shot at or having the police called.

But Pink Jacket will be looking.

At least, he’d better be. You don’t go leaving vaguely threatening notes and then just not look. It’s rude. Like posting vague Facebook statuses that are clearly a cry for attention.

Come on, man, where the hell are you?

He stretches a bit and thinks that if Pink Jacket’s inside because of a little rain, he’s never gonna get anywhere in life.

**SCHWING!**

What the fuck-

Jason rolls aside in time to dodge a-is that a **flail?**

Yes. That’s a flail.

A flail belonging to Pink Jacket, and how did he get that close without Jason noticing, Jesus-

**SCHWING!**

He’s prepared this time and is on his feet by the time the flail (flail…fuck him) is coming down. Where did this guy even have that thing? How?

“Red Hood.”

“That’s me.” Okay. Pink Jacket’s got his flail, two guns that Jason can see, and something shiny that’s probably a knife. “Can’t say I know you, though.”

Pink Jacket grins, sharp teeth catching the light, and Jason clings to the hope that the ragged chunks of meat between them are really, really rare steak.

“Eduardo Flamingo.”

“I have no idea who you are.”

“I would be a poor assassin if you did.”

He grips one of his guns, tenses to **move** if Flamingo comes at him.

“From where I’m standing, you’re still a shitty one.”

He draws the gun and Flamingo leaps to the side a second before he squeezes the trigger, vanishing behind an A/C unit.

Okay, then.

He presses up against the wall and starts moving around the other side of the unit. The rain picks up, the light **taptap** becoming an angry **TAPTAP** of fat, warm drops. Great.

Flamingo’s gone, but Jason did, apparently, hit him-there’s a few drops of blood already washing away in the downpour.

Okay, where the hell did he-

He sees the flash of pink a second before it slams into him, knocking him down and sending his gun skittering off somewhere. He tries to squirm free and Flamingo grips his shoulders, leans down so his nose is touching the helmet.

“Little close…you gotta buy me dinner first.”

Flamingo laughs and oh god the **teeth**.

“I just need your hood for my employer.”

There-he got him in the thigh, that dark patch is just a bit too dark to be water. And he’s not above aiming for the weak spots-fighting fair is how you get killed.

He jams his knee into the dark spot and Flamingo’s grip loosens enough for him to kick him off and scramble to his feet. Flamingo wheezes and the next thing Jason knows, he’s got a gun in his hand and he’s got one option-get the fuck out of the way.

He grapples up and backwards, hears glass shatter below. Flamingo laughs and what **is** it with this city and it’s laughing murderers?

“You can’t run forever!”

One, yes he can. Two, he’s not running, he’s **dodging**.

He flips onto the roof. The rain is obscuring his vision and despite the bright pink jacket, Flamingo’s hard to pick out. He’s there, though, limping just a bit. Good.

Jason moves to the other end of the roof, just across from a billboard. Flamingo doesn’t see him-or at least, doesn’t seem to-and he grapples onto the board and swings over.

He hits the bastard boots-first. Flamingo squawks and slashes with a knife, takes the zipper off the jacket. Jason rolls back just as the knife sweeps out again, this time glancing off the zipper track. Flamingo jumps up and the next thing he knows, he’s been tackled off the roof.

They land on a car. Flamingo’s laughing, fingers scrabbling at the base of the helmet, and for a second it’s someone else’s clawing fingers and someone else’s laughter.

**Not today, motherfucker.**

He kicks the man off, boots hard against creaking ribs, and that’s how he ends up under the car.

Okay, where the hell is-

**SHWING!**

He jerks his legs across the asphalt just as the flail sweeps under the car, close enough to feel the breeze.

“Come out of there!”

Okay.

He tips his head back, lines up his grappler with a balcony, and zips out of there. Now, with the better lighting, he can get a better look at the guy. Okay. Flail, several bulges that he’ll bet are guns, and sure, he doesn’t **see** any more knives, but that doesn’t mean jack. He’ll factor them in anyway.

Well. Shit. Opening fire is out of the question-there’s (sort of) innocent people and collateral damage will **never** be acceptable-so…

Flamingo leans down, peers under the car, and shakes his head. Jason unclips a smoke pellet and throws it-just as Flamingo jerks up, gun in hand, and fires.

**What the hell-**

The bullet hits him in the shoulder, knocks him off-balance. The armor slowed it down and it’ll compress it enough so he (hopefully) won’t bleed out, but **fuck** it hurts and **how** did he even-

He’s forgotten to breathe and that just makes it worse. He forces a shaky gasp in and gets back up, peering through the smoke now covering the street. Flamingo’s low to the ground, arm across his mouth and nose.

Jason takes his chance-swings down, grabs the trigger-happy little bastard, and plops him back on the roof. His shoulder’s screaming at him for that one but too bad, it’ll have to suck it up. He’s had worse.

Flamingo’s struggling, but he’s coughing and his eyes are watering. Good. Jason zip-ties his hands and jerks the flail from around his chest. Flamingo starts to laugh wheezily and his tongue dances behind his teeth.

“I won’t stop.”

“Bullshit.” Jason spits. “Who hired you?”

The laughter grows stronger and Flamingo jerks, kicks out. Jason scrambles backwards as a flash of silver emerges from the man’s boot, slashing open his jacket. A second later, Flamingo rolls off the roof and…vanishes.

Huh?

No, really, he’s **gone.** Despite the bright pink fucking jacket, he’s **not there** , not in the infrared, not…

He drops down and the jar prompts his shoulder to remind him that **hey, man, I’ve got a bullet-baby, BE GENTLE**.

Where the hell is he?

Now Jason’s a little pissed. It’s one thing when **he** does the ninja-vanish, it’s another thing entirely when **other** people do it. He scans the alley for anything-blood, hair, a trail of weapons-and comes up blank. The rain’s picked up now, pounding angrily against his helmet, and his jacket’s flapping out behind him like it wants to be a cape.

Sirens cut through the rain and he freezes. GCPD has an unofficial ‘shoot on sight’ order (at least he thinks they do, they always shoot at him when they see him) and he doesn’t relish another bullet wound, thanks.

He grapples back up to the roof and slumps against the semi-sheltered maintenance door, breathing hard. The flail is still lying on the ground a few feet away and he pulls it over with his foot. S’just a chain, really, with a bit of a spiky end to give it some weight.

Okay. Go home, get cleaned up, strategize. Next time he sees this asshole, he’s going down.


	31. Masks, Pt. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW WHAT I WANT. DC, PAY ATTENTION. What I want is a friggin’ Red Hood miniseries (or longer, but series), and I want it with the ‘I’m going to hell’ comedy of 'Arrested Development', the gritty angst of 'Daredevil' and the soundtrack skills of 'Supernatural' and 'Peaky Blinders'. I want this. MAKE IT HAPPEN. (And Heaven help you if you fuck up the characterizations. Don’t even test me.)

Jason stumbles through his apartment window at fuck this ‘o clock and promptly passes out on the floor.

It’s not for long-more of a twilight sleep-but he comes to with the knowledge that his blood’s dried just enough to make getting undressed a real bitch.

He debates just leaving things there forever. Does he look cool? Can he work it in, maybe make it look like he’ll just get come back if killed, like some sort of weird zombie crime fighter? Toss in some elements as time goes on-thrown in the bay? Maybe some water damage, that sort of thing.

He moves wrongly and decides that no, that won’t work, he has to deal with this. Ugh. Fucking assassins with their fucking teeth and…bullshit. This is bullshit. How many cannibals does this town need, anyway? They’ve got Croc, for Chrissake, isn’t that enough?

Maybe the universe has it in for him.

Well. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s bein’ a stubborn shit who refuses to lay down and die. It’s not a bad talent, really. Most of the time.

He levers himself onto his knees, waits a minute to make sure he’s not gonna go back down, and stands up. Ow. That fall onto the car gave him some nice new bruises, and they’re happy to introduce themselves. Humph.

At least his helmet survived.

He shuffles to the bathroom and pulls said helmet off. Wow, he looks like crap, though he’s inclined to blame a little of that on the unforgiving florescent bulbs.

Okay…time for the fun part. Ugh, kill him now…

Not really, please.

He settles onto the floor, back against the wall, and decides to start with his jacket. Said jacket is going to need some work, jeeze…razzafrazza fucking asshole, no respect for nice jackets…

Getting it off is hard-it’s bad enough having to flap his good arm hard enough to dislodge it without upsetting his shoulder, and **then** comes the bit where he has to pry it off the rest of the way. He forgets, sometimes, that creepy rippy-squishy noise blood makes when it’s half-dry and you pull on it.

Okay, okay, gentle but steady pressure, that’s how this works. Breathe, don’t forget to breathe.

Owowowow **shit** Flamingo is gonna regret this…

There. It’s off. And looooook at it, it’s a mess!

He tosses his poor jacket into the tub, cringing at the echoing **cling-clang-clank** of zipper track on porcelain, and works the shirt over his head. There. Now. Shoulder, because he is a responsible adult with a healthy fear of Alfred’s finding out he let something slide.

It…it could be worse, really. Okay, so yeah, there’s blood and it hurts, but he’s not gonna die. Probably. In theory.

He digs out his first-aid kit from under the sink and pops it open. To stitch or not to stitch, that is the question. Well, after getting the bullet out.

Ugh. Sometimes he wonders if this is worth it.

* * *

It’s another hour before he’s crashed on his bed, staring at his poor jacket. Hopefully the stain remover’ll work…

He can’t sleep. His shoulder hurts-less than it did, but still-and yeah, that damn laughter threw him a bit. It’s been a while since he’s had a laughing maniac in his face like that, and he’d forgotten…

Well. Never mind.

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling and digs his nails into his palms. Downstairs, Pipes McFlexy’s door opens and closes and he half-hopes she’ll turn on the TV or something. No more noise comes, though, and being on his back is starting to make it hard to breathe…

**“We’ll have so much fun, Todders, just you ‘n me, together _forever_.”**

 

No. Not tonight.

He rolls over, hand gripping his blanket

**Soft too soft to be in Arkham**

and tries to inhale for three, hold for six, exhale for four. He ends up panting and barely able to feel the blanket through the pins ‘n needles that have started overtaking his fingers.

Fuck it, he’s getting up. Maybe he’s got the stuff for scrambled eggs-his mom, when she was lucid, used to make scrambled eggs when he couldn’t sleep, and the familiarity’s stuck. Hey, when Mom was with it, things were…they were okay. Mostly.

He does, as it happens, have the stuff and he ends up flopped on the couch, plate balanced on his knee and laptop sitting on a stack of pillows. The wi-fi’s complete shit (he blames the raging downpour, personally), so no cat videos or cooking clips for him. Damn.

Something moves in the bathroom and even though he knows it won’t help, he gets up and shuts the door, wedges a chair against it for good measure.

That doesn’t do anything to stop the laughing, a hellish mix of Joker and Flamingo, and he spends the rest of the night on the balcony, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes.

He doesn’t sleep.


	32. Masks, Pt. 8

AN: Come Hell or High Water, I will find some way to cram ‘oh my goodness gracious! I’ve been bamboozled!’ into something. Somehow. Don’t know how, don’t know where, but dammit, it’s gonna happen!

**I’m never gonna live that down, am I.**

Nope! It’s goin’ on a shirt. And in here, somewhere, when I figure out how to stick it in.

* * *

Jason settles himself at his kitchen table, box of wires to his left and chest plating in front of him. Some asshole had footage- **good** footage, not shaky cheap phone footage-of Flamingo tackling him off that roof, and it had made the news. If he finds out who’s responsible, he’ll do some digging, and heaven help them if they so much as cheated on a third-grade spelling test. He’ll know, and they’ll regret it.

But right now, a little preparation is in order.

Being straight-up tackled is new. Most people aren’t stupid enough to get near him-not without backup and heavy objects, anyway-so he’s willing to cut himself a little slack for not expecting that. Also, flail. And teeth.

Yeah, okay, he wasn’t prepared **at all.**

But next time…well. Never let it be said that he’s not adaptable.

First things first-power box. Okay, that can go on his belt, so he can turn it off if necessary. He’s having visions of catching some falling old lady and fucking up her pacemaker. Shut up, it’s Gotham, it’s totally possible for old ladies to fall from the sky.

Okay…power goes here, wires gotta go…’n he doesn’t wanna electrocute himself (duuuuumb ways to die, so many dumb ways to die…), so…

Heh. Go ahead, tackle him now, motherfucker. He’ll even stand still, just to see what’ll happen.

* * *

It took four hours and more zaps than he’ll ever admit to, but he’s now tackle-proof. Well, not exactly, but if he’s going down, whatever fucker glomped him is coming with.

In theory. Not like he can test it-go upstairs to see Mr. Willicker n’ go, ‘hey, old timer, I made this thing that’ll zap seven shades of shit outta anyone who tackles me, wanna help me test it?’

He should go find a mugger…

Later, maybe. He’s tired, his shoulder’s reminding him of its presence again, and he thinks he should eat something. Doesn’t want to, but probably should.

…

Nah. Jacket first.

The stain remover did good work, at least. He has to fix the zipper though, and he’s really not looking forward to that. Busted zippers are up there with broken fingers on his list of ‘non-fatal but life-ruining’ things.

Which is going to be more effort-eating, or fixing the zipper?

A glance at the fridge says eating is the easier choice-there’s some leftover enchiladas in there, **good** ones, not the fucking travesties most people think are enchiladas. Fucking pita bread with crushed tomatoes and Kraft singles…blech.

He decides to eat them cold, because the last time he popped one in the microwave it blew up and stained the inside. Besides, he’s been standing too long, ‘n he’s dizzy. What time did he have those eggs, anyway?

Doesn’t matter.

He flops onto the couch-ow, mistake, big mistake-and prods them with a fork. They don’t look appetizing. Nothing really sounds appetizing, at this point.

When no excuse not to eat presents itself and Inner Alfred quirks one eyebrow (always a sign that there would be Hell to pay), he stabs one, fork clinking angrily against the glass below.

It’s squishy and cold in his mouth and it’s an effort to swallow it and keep it down. Some half-remembered voice (his fifteen-year-old self?) is screaming in the back of his head, begging him to puke it back out, but that’s ridiculous, it’s fine, he **made** these.

Fuck, he’s going to eat them now, out of spite. Spite’s a great motivator.

He’s not going to hunt up Flamingo tonight, he decides. Soon, yes, but not tonight-he’s tired and not running on full throttle, and that’s how you get killed in this business. He’ll get set up, though. Flamingo has to know he hit him, and he’s gonna work with that. Hey, he’s willing to sacrifice what’s left of his dignity if it’ll get the sucker to drop his guard. It worked on Joker once-got him close enough to get his ear half torn off. Jason had paid for it later, but still. It’s the little victories.

The enchiladas are starting to settle now, and holy shit he’s hungrier than he thought. The zipper can wait. He’s like, eighty percent sure he’s got strawberries in that fridge.

* * *

Some people are under the impression that vigilante work is a noble business, and that the only illegal things are all the breaking and entering (because the cops couldn’t get a warrant, is all!) and the, ah, brutal ass-kickings delivered in the name of JUSTICE.

Those people are either naive or damn dumb.

An afternoon of sleep and more food have done wonders for Jason’s shoulder-well, as much as you can expect, anyway-but as far as the Good People of Gotham are concerned, the Red Hood has no business being out on the streets. He’s gone out of his way to be a little more visible than usual, up to and including a near fall off a fire escape near a group of teenagers.

Word travels fast in Gotham, even faster in its underworld, and he knows he’s set up when a group of gorillas in nice suits spot him getting sloppy with a would-be mugger. Penguin’s boys. They’ll report to their boss, he’s sure, and word will get back to Flamingo.

Once they’re not looking, he deposits said mugger into the nearest dumpster with a nice goose egg on the back of his head. What? It’s not like he’s gonna just let people off the hook. That would make him a highly irresponsible person and a disgrace to…well, actually, Bruce can go to Hell, but…uh…Mom would be disappointed in him! So there.

He grapples onto a ledge and slumps against the still-warm bricks, eyes peeled for any flashes of pink. Those last couple’a punches hurt, actually.

He drops his head back and breathes deeply, kinda wishes he could take the helmet off for a few minutes.

Behind him, there’s the sound of a scuffle. Welp, break time’s over. Time to get back to work.


	33. Masks, Pt. 9

AN: Jason is not always the best driver. In fairness, he’s never had very good examples-let’s be real, Batman is a terror on the roads (barricade? ‘I’m Batman’ *drives straight through*) and Alfred seems the type to be a secret speeder.

**I am a great driver! I just…go a little above the speed limit.**

Who taught you to drive.

**Myself. I outran the Batmobile once! That counts for something!**

Not helping.

**Hey. I cause less property damage and traffic jams than Batman does.**

Because you don’t drive a tank.

**…I don’t like it, but fair point.**

* * *

Jason has long since acknowledged that he’s probably going to go to Hell. Hey, it can’t be worse than what Joker did. Right? It only makes sense that nothing can be on par with him. If there **is** a Hell, they probably booted him out.

So it’s only fair, really, that he take as many scumbags down with him as possible. Which he will be doing, just as soon as he can get his boots laced up.

How he got them off in the first place is a mystery-they’re triple-knotted and still a little damp (took a swim last night…). They also don’t want to **un** lace so’s he can get them on.

He got them off! It’s obvious! He didn’t sleep in them, they’re in his lap, mocking him with their…knots.

This is bullshit. He’s calling it now, this is grade-A, 1-800-BULLSHIT.

Oh, well. They wanna stay knotted? Fine. That’s why knives were invented.

He cuts the laces off and hunts up new ones, puts ‘em in while watching the sun go down. Gotham really wakes up at night, which is weird, really. Most crime-infested city in America and what do its citizens do? Saunter down dark alleyways.

He finishes one boot and leans his head against the cold glass of the window, closes his eyes and ignores the echoes of a happy (idiot) kid chirping, **c’mon, B, sun’s practically down, let’s go already!**

The vibrations of the street rattle the window gently against his skull and he pulls himself up, cracks his neck and leans down for his other boot. Time to finish gettin’ ready. Those alley-saunterers aren’t gonna save themselves.

And yeah, the sun’s practically down. Technically.

* * *

He’ll never get over that feeling of **that’s right, motherfucker, party’s over** that comes when he swings down and knocks some poor bastard into a trash can.

“Oh, god-”

Oh, yeah.

It’s the guy’s own fault, really. He should know better. Really, holding someone at knifepoint in Crime Friggin’ Alley…tsk, tsk.

He zip-ties the guy and leaves him where someone’ll trip on him, throws a, “Have a nice night.” at the frightened near-victim, and grapples back up to the roof.

That really didn’t do it. He’s **antsy** tonight, itching for a real knock-down-nobody’s-fighting-fair-ten-points-for-trashcan-creativity brawl. He’s had these nights ever since he was a kid (sorry, Mom, for all those times he came in with a split lip…again…), and that’s the only cure. Well, there’s prob’ly others, but he’s not going there. This is the safe one, the productive one.

Or it would be, if there were criminals to pummel. But noooo, they’re all hiding! What the hell? Is it ‘murder and chill’ night? Is there a game on? What the hell?

There’s probably something going on at the docks. There’s **usually** something goin’ on down there, but that means that Batman might be there. On the best of days, he doesn’t want to see him. Now? Twitchy and wound tighter than a kid’s wind-up toy? That’s just asking for trouble, and not the kind he’s after.

He cracks his neck and grimaces when it **CRACKS** and sends tingles halfway down his spine. Ow.

Maybe the Caffeinated Three know something interesting. If nothing else, he might run into something on the way over.

He makes his way back to where he left his bike, starts it up and grins at the **RRRRRRRR** of the motor. Wonders, a little, if anyone would try to pull him over for speeding.

He’d, ah, borrowed one of Bruce’s cars once. Gotten pulled over then and-somehow-managed to charm his way out of both a speeding ticket and admitting that ‘I may or may not be too young to have a driver’s license’. As far as he knows, Bruce never found out.

He doubts he can charm his way out now.

Like anyone’ll pull him over anyway.

Considering it’s fucking nighttime, there’s a lot of traffic, which leads to a slightly awkward exchange with a couple’a kids hanging out the window of a Soccer Mom Van asking if he’s chasing bad guys. Their mother looks torn between pretending nothing’s happening and attempting to drive over the car in front of her and leave town. He’s not sure if apologizing would help. Probably not.

Unfortunately, nothing happens-not even a lousy mugging-and he’s feeling no better when he shuts the bike off. His shoulder didn’t appreciate the drive, either, which makes him both antsy **and** pissy.

Heaven help whatever shmuck he **does** track down tonight.

The Three actually look up when he flops down at their table. It’s weird.

“Hood.” Ah, but Obi-Wanna-Be speaks. Typical. “Heard you fell.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. You fall down, you pick yourself up, dig the shards of glass out, and keeping going.”

“Hm.” They return to their screens. “It’s good you didn’t die. Who would buy us coffee then?”

That’s probably as close to a ‘we will spare you when we take our true lizard-forms and conquer the world’ as he’s gonna get. He’ll take it.

“Heard anything else?”

“That you landed on a car.”

How helpful.

“You know what I meant.”

“In light of your…accident…” There’s rapid typing for several minutes. “There was a Skyper yesterday afternoon.”

“Same one?” Fuckin’ morons…if it’s the same punk with the cattle prod, he’s not gonna be happy.

“Different one. Two hours. Black screen. Your name came up.”

Of course it did.

“Great. Anything else?”

Obi-Wanna-Be looks up from his screen, blinking a little at the change in lighting.

“The earbuds were dislodged. Child ran into the cord, I think…he was talking to an angry man.”

That sounds like Blackie. He asked Dove Marquis about the guy once, back when he was Robin and Black Mask was a bigger player. She snorted and said he was a noisy asshole and that Penguin hated him.

Batman had shut down the brewing gang war a week later and not long after that, well…

Well.

“Any names?”

“Pity-information is over, Hood.” Obi-Wanna-Be says, bored, and dammit, he was hopin’ to get outta here without having to ply them with coffee.

Oh, well. The fact that he does have to ply them means they knows something. And yeah, he’s a little touched that he’ll be spared when they rampage in lizard-form.

* * *

Half an hour later and thirty bucks lighter, Jason’s got a name and, thanks to one of the laptops the French Maid keeps for customer use, an address.

Jackson Wilde, twenty-eight, lives alone in that awkward in-between where Gotham goes from ‘shiny and innovative’ to ‘don’t walk too close to the alleys, you’ll get pulled in and die’. The buildings are still a little new, the streets littered with normal trash rather than bullet casings and old needles, and most of the signs work.

Wilde’s apartment building is a little run-down but still decent enough-it’s got a doorman, anyway, even if the guy **is** napping and like, a hundred-and the neon sign across the street **could** for be a regular bar and not a strip club. It’s not, but it’s nondescript enough that it could be. Your dear, doddering grandmamma won’t keel from a heart attack if she sees it, anyway, and isn’t that kind of all you can ask for?

Unfortunately, the windows are shit and Jason just…lets himself in. Pops out the screen, replaces it ever so carefully, and takes a look around. Wilde’s not home. His cat is, and it’s a friendly, one-eyed thing missing half an ear. Jason refills its water bowl, scratches its head, and resumes his sweep.

There’s nothing in here that would tie Wilde to Sionis, not even weirdly expensive furniture. It’s the right address, though, and the Three have yet to steer him wrong, so…maybe he’s the new guy. Or a very, very smart one.

Huh. Well, he may as well settle in and wait for the guy to come back.

He flops into an armchair and the cat promptly jumps up in his lap. Look at that, he’s been chosen. He’s honored. Little guilty, now, because odds are good the cat’s owner is gonna take a window dive tonight, but…

Who knows. Maybe he’ll be nice. It all depends on how cooperative Wilde is going to be.

He’s been sitting there for a while, the cat purring louder than his bike, when there’s the sound of the elevator.

“Sorry, pal, time to get off.”

It throws him a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. Eh, like that’s anything new.

He stays in the chair. People tend to freak out more when they come in and he’s made himself at home. Freaked-out people are chatty.

There’s the jingle of keys, and swearing, and then the door opens. He tenses, expecting Wilde to come into the living room…

Aaaaand he goes into the kitchen. Ugh. Okay, get your beer, whatever, just come on.

There’s the sound of pots and pans being banged around and oh dear Jesus, the obliviousness is real. What the hell? Does he not have that weird ‘someone’s in here’ feeling? Do other people not have that? Jason’s willing to acknowledge that he’s a little more paranoid than some, but…really? Really?

He probably has the shitty direct-to-video Disney sequels, huh. Jeeze…

There’s a banging sound-sounds like Wilde’s smacking the stove-and Jason’s done waiting for him.

He stands up, silently crosses to the kitchen doorway, and waits another thirty seconds before asking, “Whatcha makin’?”

“HOLY SHIT-”

The half-open can of Spaghettios hits the floor, spattering sauce all over the lower cabinets. The cat’s happy.

“Wilde, right? Jackson Wilde?”

“Oh god oh god-”

“How’s your boss?” Jason continues, and what scrap of color Wilde has left vanishes. “Still mad at you, or is he over that by now?”

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Cut the crap, it’ll hurt less.” He grabs Wilde’s shirt, kicks his legs out from under him, and forces him back against the stove. “You’re gonna tell me what I wanna know, and you’re not gonna bullshit me. Got that?”

“Mm-”

A little dose of reality is in order. He moves his grip to Wilde’s hair (ah, ponytails, great handles!), turns on the front burner, and starts dragging his head towards it. Thrashing and crying ensues.

“Okay, okay! Stop! I’ll tell ya what ya wanna know just don’t hurt me **please-** ”

Jason tilts his head, gently moves the ponytail so it’s **just** shy of touching the burner.

“That’s what I like to hear. So, Jackson, new best friend, word on the street is that you work for Black Mask.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And your boss wants me dead, huh?”

“I-I don’t kn-”

“Yeah, you do.” Oh, hey, there’s a little smoke rising from a stray hair poking a little farther out of the ponytail! Oops… “C’mon, he’s jealous, right? Red’s the new black ‘n all.”

Wilde whines but no words come out. Jason pulls on the ponytail.

“Yeah! Yeah, he hired the Pink guy!”

“I figured. Didn’t work. So what now?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, man, he was ranting, he didn’t tell me to do nothin’! Flamingo didn’t come back, that’s all I know!”

“That’s not enough.” He yanks on the ponytail-lotta smoke now, and the smell of burning hair-and plants his elbow in Wilde’s chest to keep him from getting up. “Shame. You have a nice face. Good bone structure-”

“I swear I don’t know anything else! He Skypes once a week, that’s all!”

“Why you?”

“I’m the go-guy! Flamingo, I found Flamingo for him! If he doesn’t come back by tomorrow I’m supposed to find someone else!”

“Are you new?”

“Yeah, he killed the last guy!”

Well, well. How convenient.

“Tell ya what.” He turns the burner off and whaps the ponytail half-heartedly against the front of the stove. It doesn’t stop smoking. “You keep tryin’ not die on the job, okay? And you tell me anything interesting that comes up. New assassins, shipments…you’ll know it if you hear it.”

“How do I find you.”

Wow, that fast? Either he’s really pathetic or Jason’s gonna get screwed over. Possibly both, depending on how bad of a boss Sionis is.

“I’ll find you.” He lets Wilde drop. “By the way…where the fuck did you **find** Flamingo?”

“Th-there’s a club…like a murderer club or something, I don’t know, I put out feelers and they called me.”

“Still got the number?”

“Uh, no. Restricted.”

Eh, fair enough.

And then, because gaining a mole did nothing to quell the itch in his veins (and also because he doesn’t wanna get ratted out), he slams Wilde’s head against the stove, knocking him out cold.


	34. Masks, Pt. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was knocked on my ass (allergies, man, those of you who don’t have ‘em-or have mild ones-are lucky and I hate you) last weekend and my brilliant ‘feel better’ plan was to write a shit-ton of AU short stories about Jason being accidentally adopted by Dove Marquis. No, I don’t know how it happened. I don’t remember writing half of them. But they’re there, a mountain of adorable angst, and you’ll pry them from my cold, dead fingers because Tiny Jay deserves nice things. 
> 
> Why am I telling you this, you ask?
> 
> Yeah…you’re gonna be mad at me at the end of this chapter, so I wanted to provide nice mental pictures for you first.

**“YOU KNOW HE AIN’T GONNA DIIIIIIIIIIIE!”**

Jason is awakened by his phone.

Well, ‘awakened’ is a strong word. That implies he was asleep. He wasn’t. It was more of a…twilight existence. But it might’ve turned to sleep if his phone didn’t decide to ring.

It’s times like this that he regrets setting his ringtone to Alice in Chains.

He flails a little, finds the phone, and rolls over. Just a text. Nobody’s stupid enough to call him. (Not even Dick-Jason is apparently the only one who thinks answering the phone with ‘Red Hood, patron saint of mortuaries, how can I help you?’ is funny. Also, he changed his number.)

**Hood, u dead?**

This is the one (okay, main) problem with having informants who spend their time strung out or vomiting. They miss shit. They pick shit up, too-nobody cares about the guy sitting on the streetcorner-but sheesh…

**No.**

Well, he’s awake now. May as well get in touch with his new mole. Provided he still has a mole.

**Wilde, my man, hear anything interesting?**

For a few minutes there’s no answer, and he’s starting to wonder if the guy’s dead or going to ignore him (rude!) when he gets a reply.

**Who’s this?**

Punctuation! And spelling! Please, Wilde, don’t die.

**Aww, I’m hurt. How’s your cat?**

**HOW’D YOU GET THIS NUMBER.**

The truth is that he rifled through Wilde’s pockets, got his phone, and called himself with it. But that’s not exciting.

**I have my ways. So. Anything interesting come your way? Anything…pink?**

There. Better to let the risks worry that you do, in fact, know everything about them. Makes ‘em less likely to screw you over later.

Wilde doesn’t text back and Jason shrugs, drags himself outta bed and towards the kitchen. He has bacon in there, he saw it last night.

He’s narrowly avoided a pop of grease to the eye (what the hell, VENGEFUL PIG, VENGEFUL PIG IN THE PAN) when his phone goes off again.

**He’s just gone, I guess, I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him.**

Wilde’s an awful mole. What good is he if he doesn’t know anything? Ugh…

**Blackie call you at all?**

**No.**

Quick. Too quick. Jason suspects a lie.

Oh, well. Bacon first-OW MOTHERFUCKER-

Alfred never has this problem. Alfred probably had it once, raised an eyebrow, and shamed the bacon into submission.

Jason’s tempted to call him and ask how.

**Thanks anyway. You hear anything, I’d like to hear it, too.**

There. That’s suitably ominous. It’s a text, it’s hard to be scary over text unless you’re describing somebody’s current pajamas and judging their Netflix choices.

Oh, well. He’s got a new lead on Flamingo-find the organization that sent him, and he might at least get a favorite bar. Good thing he’s got connections.

* * *

Dove Marquis is a reliable person. She’d have to be-the Penguin is a reliable person, likes to stick to schedules. Which means that Jason knows exactly when her smoke breaks are, and can take advantage.

“Hey.”

“Jesus-” The ash sprinkles to the ground when she jumps. “Hood, if I die from a heart attack…this is Gotham, I **will** come back to haunt you.”

“Sorry, Miss Marquis.” He sits down on the fire escape and hangs his legs over the edge. “Got a minute?”

“Maybe.”

“This involves Black Mask. Your boss might wanna know.”

She snorts.

“Whatever. What do you want.”

“Vodka shot?”

“You’re underage.” What? Bullshit! How? “C’mon, be reasonable here.”

Humph.

“Eduardo Flamingo. You know him?”

“Pink guy, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah. Came in here looking for a job…last December, I think. The boss said no. Said he was unpredictable, like Zsasz.”

“Where’d he come from? Any idea?”

“I don’t know anything…”

“Of course not.”

“But if I **did** , I’d say that sleazy little bar in the Cauldron. You know, the one that’s breaking every health ‘n safety code in existence?”

“Don’t we all?”

She throws him an exasperated look.

“Of course you do…anyways, I really don’t know for sure. Guy was creepy, I didn’t deal with him much.” She takes a long drag and exhales through her nose. “Why? What’d you do?”

He’s insulted that he’s automatically to blame for this, but…well…

Okay. But still! Rude.

“I’m hurt.”

“After that fall, I bet you are.”

“Did everyone see that? That’s bullshit.”

Dove rolls her eyes, stubs her cigarette out, and reaches up to pat his boot.

“You’re an idiot. You gotta be, to pick fights with psychopaths every night-”

“Hey!”

“-but your heart’s in the right place. So don’t just charge in there and get yourself killed, okay? Be safe.”

He **is** safe! Most of the time. It’s a dangerous job, that’s all. Jeeze. Such little faith from people…

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

“Sure, Hood. Now go on, sign says no loitering.”

“Tell ya if I get anything good on Sionis.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Buy ya a stiff drink for puttin’ up with me?”

“When you’re allowed, I’ll take you up on that one.”

She ducks back inside and he huffs. Underage…bullshit…his fake ID would beg to differ, and it is **impeccable**. Kinda has to be. He’s pretty sure he’s legally dead. Or at least, like, missing but totally presumed dead by everyone.

Huh. He should look and see.

Oh well. Time to go to work.

* * *

‘That sleazy little bar in the Cauldron’ is technically named Joe’s Bar, but if you live here, you know its name is Pickpocket’s Paradise. Jason’d made rent more than once down here and to this day refuses to feel too sorry. F’you’re too drunk to be suspicious of the scrawny, bright-eyed brat chirping ‘sorry mister!’, you deserve what you get.

‘Sides, pickpocketing beat the alternative.

Nobody’s quite brave enough to risk it with him-he’d know-but he gives a little girl what he’s got on him anyway. S’cold at night. Dangerous.

The inside of the bar is a stereotype of almost tragic proportions-dim, grimy, busted TV, the perpetual air of an oncoming brawl. Nobody looks up when he walks in save for the bartender who, in true Gothamite fashion, merely looks long-suffering.

Good.

He walks up and leans on the corner, waits for her to finish with the handsy guy at the other end (watch it, buddy, push it too far and there’ll be a face-shaped dent in this counter), and waves.

“Watcha want.”

“Lookin’ for a friend of mine. Eduardo Flamingo, likes pink and really rare steak.”

“Can’t help you.”

“Really? ‘Cause another friend of mine said you could.”

She stares at him with dull eyes, curls her lip, and tosses her head in a half-scoff.

“Bullshit. You gonna buy somethin’ or not?”

He’s tempted to try it-maybe Dove’s unfair superpower is just a side effect of bartending-but he can’t drink it anyway, and he’s now broke.

“You don’t really want me to start looking for him, do you? I mean, I’m a klutz. I break shit. Glass, tables, arms…y’know.”

“Who’s the friend that sent you.”

“Uh-uh.” He wags a finger with no small amount of trepidation-she seems the type to go full Ninja and chop it off. “If I got all my friends killed, I’d be sad. And on the shitlist of a lot of people. Thanks anyway, though, I’ll just-”

He senses someone behind him a second before he sees a flash of pink in the bottles behind the bar.

**Fuck me.**


	35. In Another Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! If you stand there and don’t push the button to get the first flashback rolling, you can be treated to horrible, horrible guilt. 0/10, NEVER AGAIN. SUFFER WITH ME: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1sR2Js0nPoE
> 
> Some sort of…happier…alternate universe in which Jason was found maybe…four, five months in? He hasn’t reached peak rage mode, but he has figured out that Batman isn’t coming-even if he won’t admit that to the Joker. He’s not the most reliable narrator like this, but oh, well.
> 
> Because I like to cherry-pick a bit, the Penguin I use hails mostly from Gotham-stabby psycho, but I think he’s got limits. Far limits, but still. (Also, petty bastard-this would piss Joker off to no end. It wasn’t on purpose. He was hoping for funding/chemicals/henches to murder, as payback for one of his buildings accidentally falling victim to a Scheme.)
> 
> Recommended listening: ‘Jesus Christ’ by Brand New.

**(“Is he dead?”**

**“Take him to my office-”**

**“Jesus-”**

**“-contact Batman to come get him, clean him up-”)**

“Shh, baby, shh, you’re okay…”

The first thing that really registers through the haze is that he’s lying down. He wasn’t, before, Joker’d strung him up ‘for later’. But now his arms are by his sides and he’s lying on something firm but soft to the touch and **god** it’s been so long since he’s touched anything like this.

The second thing that hits is that there’s a washcloth moving hesitantly across his head. The fingers behind it press it down into his hair and against his scalp. It’s warm. Feels nice. What…

It moves, dabs against a mostly-healed cut on his forehead. Water runs down his face and he can **feel** it sluicing through who-knows-how-much blood ‘n grime. He’s confused…did somethin’ happen? Joker’s brought a doctor for him once, when he got sick (chest cold, broken ribs make that hard to deal with), but that hadn’t been like this.

He knows he should open his eyes but he doesn’t want to. It’s dawned on him that this is a dream, or a hallucination, and if he keeps his eyes closed maybe he can hold onto it for a little while longer.

There’s a laugh somewhere in the distance and he jerks up, tries to scramble away and finds his back against a wall. It’s. It’s bright. Well. Fashionably dim, but compared to **down there** it’s bright. Hurts his eyes, a little, but it’s not Arkham where is he what **now**?

“Robin?” That’s not **him**. Not Harley, either. What… “You awake, sweetie?”

Mom? No, no, Mom’s dead and she can’t be here unless he’s dead too but he doesn’t remember and dyin’ seems memorable…

Things are just so blurry.

He spots a lamp with a gold penguin on it and now he knows where he is. Or, rather, where he’s dreaming he is. Penguin’s office. Why…

“Robin?”

Dove Marquis is crouched next to him, washcloth in hand. He doesn’t know why his brain’s drawn her up but it doesn’t matter because it’s not real **it’s not real.**

He doesn’t realize he’s muttering it until she moves, draws herself onto the foot of the bench.

“It’s real, honey.” Her voice is thick and she’s looking at him like she’s about to cry. “It’s real, you’re safe, the boss is getting in touch with Batman to come and get you.”

He’s not it’s not real and Batman wouldn’t come anyway. He never comes. Sometimes he does, in dreams, but he always leaves Jason there because he fucked up and-

“No.” he whispers. “He’s not comin’, just stop, please…”

“I’m just gonna get you cleaned up a bit, huh? That sound okay?” The (imaginary) track the water carved on his face only makes the blood and dirt all the more itchy, but he’s not gonna get his hopes up. Just makes waking up harder. “Okay…just hold still for me.”

He closes his eyes when her hand gets too close, shudders when the washcloth makes contact with his skin. It’s warm and wet and **god** he wants it to be real.

The washcloth-or a new one, feels different-moves over a deep scratch on his cheek. Joker’d been…physical, that day, real touchy-feely. And angry. Screamed somethin’ about takin’ Jason’s eyes out ‘n mailing ‘em to Batman in a jar.

He drifts, a little, mind swimming aimlessly, only to be yanked back to consciousness by another laugh. That’s what always breaks these dreams, laughter that doesn’t stop and gives way to screamed, **WAKE UP TODDERS WAKE UP WAKE UP!**

“S’okay, honey, s’just a customer.” Huh? “You’re okay.”

He forces his eyes open. Things aren’t melting, the room is still Penguin’s office. Dove’s still there, half-leaning over, and the bench beneath him is still firm a-and soft.

“M-Miss Marquis?” This isn’t…she’s not…this is what’ll do it, the desperate wish for this to be real. She’ll change, now, and he’ll be in Hell again.

She doesn’t start laughing and her face stays not-clowny, eyeshadow shimmering in the dim lighting.

“Hey, honey.”

He’s hugging her before he realizes that might be a bad idea and she’s **solid** she’s **here** -

“Oh, **Robin**.” she breathes. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay, it’s over.”

It’s not because Batman won’t come and Penguin will just give him back or kill him and-

He doesn’t remember starting to cry, but he can’t stop because it isn’t over, it’ll be worse now and-

“Shh, shh.” Dove’s hand comes to rest, hesitantly, on his shoulder. “You’re okay, I gotcha, you’re okay…”

“Please don’t send me back.” Anything but that, he’ll even hold still if Penguin wants him shot. “Please, I don’t…I can’t…” He swallows, tries to shut up and can’t. _“I just wanna go home.”_

Home, to Alfred at least because surely Alfred hasn’t abandoned him like everyone else, he probably thinks he’s dead.

“You’re gonna go home.” The hand leaves and she hugs him, tentative. “You’re okay now, you’re gonna go home, Batman’ll be here soon-”

Either she’s lying or she doesn’t know and both options hurt so damn much. He shakes his head and presses his face against her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut to try and stop the tears. Dove’s hand moves to his head. M-maybe…maybe she’ll at least…not the Joker. He can’t. He **can’t** , not again. She’s gotta have something-a gun, cyanide…he’ll do it himself if he has to, with a knife or somethin’, just…please…

“M’sorry.” he whispers, because he shouldn’t…this isn’t… “M’sorry, m’sorry.”

**Please don’t be mad at me I c-can’t…**

“Shh, shh, baby.” She rubs his head. “This isn’t your fault, that fucker-” **M’sorry, please-** “Never mind him. This isn’t your fault, don’t apologize to me.”

He should move, he knows he should, s’just been so **long** since he’s had anything like this ‘n he wants to be selfish, just this once.

She lets him cling, and he’s not sure how much time passes before she says, “Robin?”

“M’not Robin.” he mumbles. “Batman would’ve come for Robin ‘n he didn’t come for me.”

She squeezes him a little and doesn’t argue the point.

“Think you can keep some water down?”

He doesn’t know. He can’t remember…Joker’d sedated him, earlier, n’ sometimes he uses an IV. Can’t have his favorite toy dying too soon.

“Maybe.”

“Okay.”

Too late, it occurs to him that she has to go and get it, but before he can protest she’s propped him back against the wall. His head hurts and his face feels hot.

She’s just handing him the (sealed, it’s prob’ly safe then) bottle when her phone rings and she lunges for it.

“Hang on-sir?”

Penguin. Jason cracks the bottle’s (small, round, chilled to whatever the optimum temperature is) seal and swallows half of it. It slides down his throat and behind his ribs before settling in an icy pool in his empty stomach. He slumps against the wall, listening to traffic- **traffic** , he never thought he’d hear traffic again-outside. He savors it while it lasts-Penguin’s probably calling to say Batman said **fuck off**.

“-sorta conscious-”

Shit, **he’s** the topic of discussion. Who is he kidding, Penguin won’t give him back, Penguin’ll keep him for information.

A fresh wave of terror breaks over him and his stomach clenches around the water. He can’t…no more, please no more…

“That was the boss.” Huh? “He thinks Batman’ll be there soon. Think you can sleep ‘til then?”

No. No, no, if there’s a chance to run he has to take it. Or a chance to die.

“Mm-mm.”

“What about just lying down?”

He doesn’t want to, but his ribs hurt and he’s dizzy. He can still move, he thinks, can get himself up if he needs to.

Almost without his permission, his body slides down to the bench, the cushion welcoming him like a hug. He thinks it feels like his old bed, but he can’t remember.

Dove pulls a blanket (blue, chenille) out of a closet and before he can protest, she’s draped it over him and tucked a sweater (hers, smells like perfume and cigarette smoke) under his head. Everything’s **soft** and **clean** and it’s just been so long, **god** …

“Close your eyes, Robin.” she says. “You’re all right, just rest.”

His eyes flutter shut against his will and he’s not sure if he thinks or says, “Jason. B-Batman would’ve come for Robin, ‘n he left me.”

“Jason, then.” Oops. Not that it matters anymore…Joker knew. Knows. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t have the right to care, but he’s suddenly panicked that she’s going to leave him for whatever Penguin wants done and he doesn’t want…

“Don’t go. Please.”

“Shh.” A manicured hand, trembling a little, comes down in his hair. “I’m not. Go to sleep, Jason.”

If he keeps his eyes closed, he can tell himself Mom’s there, ‘n that…he wants that. He wants his mom at the end. Please.

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must’ve-he blinks and the blanket’s bunched in his hands. His head doesn’t hurt so much ‘n for a minute or two he thinks that maybe…maybe…

**M’I dead?**

There’s the shattering of breaking glass in another room and he flinches, fingers poking themselves through the weave of the blanket. Dove’s…Dove’s not here? But-

“M-Miss Marquis?”

“Whatcha need, honey?”

Oh. She’s over there, he just didn’t see her. Penguin’s not here, then.

He’s going to say ‘I forgot’, but what comes out instead is, “Think m’gonna be sick.”

Next thing he knows, an ice bucket (smells like sharp steel god he can taste it can feel the crowbar against his ribs) appears and he hangs his head over, manages three inhales, and feels his stomach flip. S’just water ‘n bile but he can’t s-stop heaving ‘n **god** -

He finally stops, still hanging half-off the bench, trembling arms struggling to keep him up. Dove’s got a wet cloth draped across his neck and he’s just, he’s just…

“M’sorry, m’sorry…”

“Shh, baby.” She rubs his back. “Don’t be sorry. Come on, rinse your mouth out.”

The water turns tepid and stale in his mouth, but it helps and he forces himself back onto the bench, hears more than sees Dove take the bucket to rinse out and bring back. His ribs hurt and his breath is hot and wet against his tongue, but the room’s back in focus. S’dimmer than it was. S’cold, a little, and he scrunches under the blanket.

The wet cloth is still there and he pulls it forward, feels it brush against the gouges in his neck (barbed wire, kept him still and make Joker laugh and laugh but that’s no great feat, is it). Dove kneels in front of him.

“Did he give you anything?” Why? What does it matter, he’s gonna die one way or the other- “Jason. I need to know, if I need to take you to a hospital-”

Joker’ll check there, he’ll know, he always knows, they’re **not safe**.

“Jus’a sedative, s’worn off.”

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.”

The phone rings again and this is it, isn’t it, Penguin’s coming or he won’t even bother, maybe, he’ll just have one of his goons deal with things.

“Sir, I-uh-huh. Yeah, mostly, um…”

He tunes her out, closes his eyes and tries to remember Alfred’s voice when he’d read aloud. Poems, mostly-he used to recite them sometimes, when he was cooking. Or sing, but that was, ha, that was bad. He’d give anything to hear it again, though.

He can’t remember it. Can’t remember the voices he used to do for Shakespeare.

**Alfie, m’sorry…**

There’s the **snick** of the phone being closed.

“That was the boss.” He figured. “He’s, uh…I think he might be robbing the museum? There was an alarm. But anyway, a couple’a the guys stopped reporting in, so they’re probably unconscious in a closet.”

Br- **Batman.** There’s a flicker of hope in his chest that flares, bright and painful, before going out.

“Miss Marquis?”

“Yeah?”

He swallows, wants to make eye contact and can’t.

“Batman,” and his voice only shakes a little, “he’s. He’s not gonna come.”

“Honey-”

“He’s not.” Still hurts to say it, even though he knows it’s true. “S’okay, I know he’s not. But. Um. Penguin…I-I don’t wanna go back t-to…” Breathe, Jay, don’t be afraid. “To _him_. But…s’just…you’ve always been nice to me, ‘n…I-I just…f’you could maybe…make it…make it quick, I don’t want-”

“Sweetheart, **no.** ” She’s shaking her head and looking three steps from turning into a blubbery mess. “He’ll come, honey, I promise, and if-for argument’s sake-he didn’t, I’d drive you to the hospital myself, but I won’t have to, because _he’ll be here_. He’s been tearing the city apart trying to find you.”

No he hasn’t, he would’ve found him then and Jason knows it. He can’t even be angry, really. He wouldn’t look for himself, either.

“He won’t come, s’my fault I got caught, I know it is. I just…I can’t go back, he won’t even let me **die-** ”

He chokes and starts to cough, pulls himself up to try to breathe. He’s barely gotten his breath back when he’s tugged into a gentle hug and the blanket’s wrapped around his shoulders.

“He’ll come.” She sounds so sure. He used to be sure. He knows better, now. “He’ll come, I promise. You’re going home if I have to hijack his goddamn car and drive you-”

He huffs a laugh, partly at the idea of Dove Marquis, of all people, hijacking the Batmobile and partly at the ridiculousness of him having a home anymore. The laugh turns slightly hysterical

**God please I don’t wanna die I don’t-**

and he winds up with his face pressed against her shoulder, jaw clenched to try and keep the tears at bay. He wants to go home, wants it more than he’s wanted anything in his life.

“Tell you what, honey.” She shifts so she’s leaning against the wall and he’s propped against her. “If he doesn’t come, I will personally give you that vodka shot you always pester me for, okay?”

He doesn’t even want it, now, but maybe this is her way of promising to…to make it quick, like he’d asked. Tha’s okay.

“M’kay.”

He should move. He’s done enough. But she’s not trying to push him off or anything and…

And he’s **tired**.

“Think you can go back to sleep?” He thinks he remembers laughter and shakes his head. “Okay.” She pulls the blanket a little straighter and tucks it around his ribs. “So some tourists tried to take a selfie with the boss last week.”

Huh? What’s this got to do with anything?

“Hm?”

“Yeah. Strolled right in wearing-I shit you not, kid-Hawaiian shirts and said they wanted a picture with the Penguin for their vacation scrapbook.”

Oh. It’s a distraction. It…okay. Tha’s okay.

“What happened?”

“Well, to be honest, I kinda thought he was gonna spontaneously combust. He got all red and stammery and gesturey. We had to escort ‘em out, but the **balls** …or the stupidity, maybe, I don’t know. But now every time he sees a Hawaiian shirt he gets this look like he’s bitten a lemon and hisses, ‘tourisssssitsssss’. It’s horrible but it’s really funny but I’m hoping he doesn’t, like…stab somebody over it.”

“Were they drunk?”

“Nope. Just dumb.”

She starts telling him something else, something about a power outage, maybe, and he drifts back off.

* * *

He’s startled back to consciousness by an achingly familiar **VROOM!**

“Huh-”

“Think that’s your ride, kiddo.” He wants it to be, so much. “Think you can wake up?”

Jason’s not sure which is worse-the desperate want for him to be here, or the likelihood that he’s just driving by. He curls as best he can into the blanket and shakes his head.

“Mm-mm.”

“Come on, honey.” She props him back against the wall and tilts his chin up to look at her. “It’s okay. I told you you’d go home.”

He shrugs.

Penguin’s voice reaches him a minute later and he takes a deep breath. It’s time.

“-shatter my door, _I will open it._ ”

Huh?

The door opens and Cobblepot has barely stepped aside when **he** appears in the opening. Great. Great, h-he’s come to say don’t bother, or to confirm, maybe, or-

Dove retreats to stand next to her boss and Batman takes a step into the room, cape flapping behind him. Well? Why isn’t he saying something? **Why is he here?**

The next thing Jason knows, Batman’s in front of him, one hand (shaking, why’s he shaking, Batman doesn’t shake) reaching out to brush against his cheek.

“Jay?” he whispers, and he shouldn’t sound like that, all uncertain and… “My god…”

The hand presses flat, warm glove against his skin. Jason swallows. He’s confused, this isn’t…Batman…

 _“Jason.”_ he breathes, a-and that’s not Batman, that’s **Bruce** , he’s here he’s **here** -

“Dad.” he chokes out, flings his arms around his neck in a desperate bid not to be left behind. “Dad, m’sorry, m’sorry, I d-didn’t…” He gulps, fingers clenching around Bruce’s cape. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me-”

“Shh, shh.” Bruce cradles him, hesitant and so, so shaky. “It’s not your fault, it’s all right now, we’re going home.”

Home…home is a dream he can barely remember.

He pulls himself up enough to press his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck, breathes in cave and leather and metal. God, he just…this isn’t…

One of Bruce’s hands leaves his back and he frantically tightens his grip.

“I’ve got you, Jay, I’m just getting my cape off.”

Huh? Why?

That is, in fact, all he’s doing and a few seconds later Jason finds out why when the cape (thick and softer than you might think) wraps around him. He’s picked up and the movement jostles his ribs but he doesn’t care Bruce is here he’s really here. He brings a hand up to close the cape at his throat, closes his eyes and clings to the tightness of Bruce’s arms around him, like he doesn’t want to let go.

Like he won’t decide this is a mistake and leave him.

“Cobblepot.” The Batman growl is apparently an impossibility right now-all Jason hears is stress and disbelief. Cobblepot, thankfully, spares them all an awkward conversation.

“Keep a better eye on your brats.” he snaps. “And get that damned clown under control.”

Jason shivers and Bruce pulls him closer.

“Thank you.” he grinds out, and god, he must be in Hell with all these emotions flying around.

“Take him home.” Dove’s voice, and whatever patience she had for him is nonexistent for the Batman. “He’s been through enough tonight.”

He needs, he needs…to thank her, Alfie’d be upset f’he didn’t…‘n…

Pulling his head from Bruce’s shoulder is a gargantuan effort, but he manages it and mumbles, “Thanks for…for.”

**Everything.**

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He drops his head back. “No vodka shot for you, huh?”

No. Guess not.

They leave, then, and Jason doesn’t know if it’s seconds or hours before he hears the car opening up. Bruce lays him into the roller-coaster seat, adjusts the cape so Jason is practically burritoed in it.

“Are you…”

 **Okay** is probably what he was going to say, and no, he’s so far from okay he may as well be in an alternate universe, but Jason’s guessing Bruce meant **bleeding, drugged, otherwise in need of emergency services.**

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.” The warm glove cups his face again, fingers brushing too-long bangs with frantic tenderness. “Okay, Jay, we’re going home.”

He nods-or thinks he does-and Bruce steps back

**Don’t go don’t leave me please**

and the seat moves back into the car. A second later, he hears Bruce get behind the wheel and deems it safe enough to pass out.

* * *

He comes to, bleary and worn out, when he’s lifted out of the car. He should protest-he’s too big to be carried-but all he does is slump against Bruce.

They’re in the cave, now, ‘n he can hear computers and bats and dripping water. He cracks his eyes open (they’re heavy, s’hard) and spots the giant penny. He’d forgotten about the penny.

“B?”

“We’re home.” Whatever composure Bruce had is out the window now-his voice is choked and Jason can hear (feel?) his throat muscles working, doing the nervous gummy swallow. “We’re home, Jay, you’re home, it’s going to be okay.”

Home…

He’s being carried towards the med bay and he reaches over to brush a hand against the rock wall. It’s cold and a little bit damp and he’s **home** -

“Th-thought you’d left me.” he mumbles, tongue stiff, and Bruce freezes.

 **“No.”** Jason cringes (should’ve shut up shouldn’t have reminded him that he’s not worth it shit) and Bruce’s arms tighten, hands moving carefully against his sides. “No, no, Jason, I…” His head comes down to rest against the top of Jason’s (cowl’s off…when?). “I’m sorry, Jay, I’m so sorry.”

“Master Br- _Master Jason._ ”

Alfred? Has to be, but…Alfred never sounds like that, rattled ‘n…‘n anythin’ less than mildly exasperated, usually, ‘least down here.

“Alfie.” he says, or tries to, and the familiar wrinkled hand comes down on his head.

Bruce sets him down on a gurney and he looks up at the shimmering ceiling, counts a cluster of stalactites.

“M’jus’ gonna close m’eyes.” he mumbles, and if there’s any answer, he doesn’t hear it.

THE END


	36. Broken Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Jason’s birthday! So I wanted something…happy. Which ain’t hard-I could have him hit by a truck and it’d be happier than canon. (I won’t, I won’t.) This isn’t that happy, but compared to the alternative…
> 
> Direct flipped-perspective to ‘In Another Life’. I wanted to see what would happen. Then I was all, ‘WHICH ONE TO POST’ and figured, ‘fuck it, tears for all!’
> 
> Dove is nice to the Robins, but she doesn’t approve of their existence, because BATMAN you are hurling CHILDREN into war with people who play chess with severed fingers, WHAT THE HELL.
> 
> Recommended listening: Civil Twilight's 'Human'.

Dove has privately deemed her boss to be the bitchiest man in existence. His pettiness is legend. If she were a worse person, she would take notes and aspire to his level.

That quality had, tonight, led to something interesting.

Everybody knew what the Joker had done-caught Batman’s little sidekick and made him disappear, bippity-boppity-boo. If any of the others know where he is, they’re keeping it to themselves. Dove suspects they don’t know, if only because Batman would have gotten it out of them in the end. The Joker can resist broken bones because he gets off on it, at least when the Bat is doing the breaking. The rest of them have their own ends and obsessions, and they would have caved.

But the clown had fucked up-one of Penguin’s prized properties had been caught up in his latest scheme-and the boss was out for blood. Dove had expected murder, perhaps, or ruined plots for the next six months. What happened-and this may have been an accident, who knows-was that Cobblepot found his little storage room in Arkham.

Dove’s suspecting he called in a favor with the Riddler, who can barter, threaten, or annoy information out of almost anyone. When that fails, he can get into camera feeds. And Arkham, being Arkham, is riddled (shit, he’s rubbing off on her!) with cameras.

The blind spots near the elevator had gotten his attention, and Cobblepot’s, and a break-in had been orchestrated.

Apparently it had not been pretty. Dove can’t vouch for that. She **can** vouch for the shock of the raiding party returning with the bloody remains of Robin cradled in Charlie’s arms.

“Fuck-”

It’s been months. Her first thought is that the boy’s dead-he’s bloody and limp and it’s been **months** , that clown…

“Is he dead?” she breathes, because Jesus Christ how can he **not** be. “Charlie?”

Charlie’s fingers are moving in reassuring flutters on his ribs, and when Dove scurries over she can hear him breathing-raspy and cut with whimpers. Jesus…Jesus Christ, what did Joker **do** …

“Sir?”

“You’re in charge of him.” Cobblepot says shortly, holding up a hand in the direction of the car. “Clean him up a bit, make sure he doesn’t die before I can get Batman down here to collect him.”

He should be in a hospital, and she’s about to say so when it occurs to her that this is probably safer. Forget the Joker-he’s an easy target right now, and there’s more than a few people who would either keep him or return him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll keep in touch-did I tell you to shut the car off? Idiots…”

He limps back, presumably to do something illegal, and Dove manages a deep breath.

“Okay. Boss’s office, just… **fuck** , Charlie, what the hell?”

“I don’t know-” Robin whimpers and pulls his head away from Charlie’s shoulder. “Shh, shh, s’okay, kid, I gotcha, shh…”

She nudges the door open and ducks out for washcloths and water. Grabs the communal first aid kit on the way back, because it’s better than nothing. What the hell, this was not in the plan, how is this kid not dead by now…

When she gets back in, Charlie’s settled him on the plush bench by the far wall. Robin’s still and silent, not even a little responsive to Charlie’s stream of chatter. His gloves and belt are off, now, a wadded-up, bloody mess on the floor. That bench is going in the incinerator, more than likely. Well, the boss did say to take him here.

“-getcha cleaned up a bit, you’re gonna be okay now…”

“Was he awake earlier?”

“Nah-uh.” Charlie swallows, looking like he wants to be sick. “Jesus, Dove, I never…we got down there and I swear to god he was just hanging on a goddamn meat hook…” He swallows again, clenches his jaw. “He’s a **kid** , he’s not even Marie’s age, I betcha, what kinda sick fucker-”

“I don’t know.” She sets down the bucket of warm water. Where to even start… “Go make sure no one comes back here that shouldn’t, okay? I’ll keep you posted.”

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

“Yeah. Go, if he wakes up and there’s too many people…”

“I get it. Text me.”

He leaves and she locks the door after him. Christ. She’s scared to touch him, a little, because she can’t see what’s wrong and he could be one wrong move away from a punctured lung or-

Okay. Breathe. Face first, get that crap off. Somebody’s tried, a little-probably Charlie-and there’s smudges on either side of his mouth that form some sort of smile. She doesn’t want to know why.

When she presses the washcloth to his hairline, his breath hitches and he pulls away. Shit…hopefully he’s still unconscious, for his sake.

“Shh, baby, shh, you’re okay, it’s gonna be okay…”

He doesn’t move again, not even when she uncovers semi-healed furrows (fingernails) just under his eyes. Charlie’s right, he’s a kid, what the hell…

Later. She can worry about _what the hell_ later.

Robin’s eyes flutter open a few minutes later. They’re glazed over and she tries to see if he looks drugged or concussed, but she honestly can’t tell.

“Hey, honey.” He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t respond. “You awake, sweetheart?”

She gets an answer not ten seconds later-somebody laughs a little too loudly and he jerks, scrambles up and presses against the wall, eyes fixed on the door. Shit.

“Robin?” He doesn’t seem to hear her, too busy staring at the door with wide eyes. “Robin, can you hear me?” Nothing. She’s pretty sure (really hopeful) that she can restrain him if she has to, but she doesn’t want to and besides, adrenaline is magic. “C’mon, honey, look at me.”

He closes his eyes instead and whispers, “Not real.”

She is not going to cry. She is not.

“It’s real, honey.” she says softly. “I promise, it’s real, the boss is getting in touch with the Bat to come and get you-”

“Mm.” He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut and jaw tight. “It’s not real, it’s not real, just wake up-”

“I’m just gonna get ya cleaned up a bit, okay?” Maybe that’ll help. “That’s all. I can stop if you need me to.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but he does open his eyes again, to glassy slits. She has no clue if he’s really seeing her or not, but she holds up the washcloth and, when he doesn’t freak, she eases herself onto the edge of the bench and leans over. He flinches and closes his eyes when the cloth touches his skin, but that’s all.

“Okay…” she breathes, thumbing the cloth over his cheek. “Okay, honey, you’re okay, I promise…can you tilt your head for me-just there, that’s fine.”

There’s marks on his neck that she knows are from barbed wire, and there’s a handful of track marks on his jugular. She’s hoping sedative and guessing that ‘n then some, but hopefully the worst of it’s out of his system.

He half-cringes but doesn’t fight her when she takes a new washcloth, wetter this time, and rubs it through his hair. No goose eggs, at least…

“ **There** we go, sweetheart, that’s better, get some of this off’a you…” When she draws back, his eyes are a little clearer and he’s looking **at** her rather than **through**. “Robin? You with me?”

“M-Miss Marquis?”

She tries a smile. It feels too brittle.

“Hey, honey.”

She’s not expecting him to fling himself into her arms, sobbing and whispering, “Please don’t go, please-”

“Shh, shh.” She thought he looked fragile? Ha, she had no idea-his uniform’s hanging off him and he’s…he’s got that softness small children have, when they can break if they fall off a bar stool. “It’s okay, honey, you’re okay, I gotcha.”

He presses his head into her shoulder and she tries to get into a better position to hold him. Jesus, she has no idea…she doesn’t want to squeeze him (what’s broken, what could start bleeding?), but…

“M’sorry, m’sorry, just please, I don’t wanna…” He gulps, fingers tightening against her back. _“I wanna go home.”_

**Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.**

“Don’t be sorry.” She settles for draping her arms around him (that shouldn’t cause too much damage, right?). “Don’t be sorry, Robin, this isn’t your fault, we’re gonna get ya home, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head-or maybe he’s just shaking-and chokes, “M’not Robin, he’d’ve come for Robin ‘n he left me-”

Joker did this. Batman let him. Batman, with his child soldiers, doesn’t he realize how Gotham kids see him? None of them, not even Mask’s runners, would say no to him. God, what can she s **ay?** Nothing, really, but she can’t just…

“Shh, shh, baby, you’re okay.” She risks rubbing his shoulders and he shudders, practically crawls into her lap. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I gotcha, you’re okay.”

He doesn’t answer and eventually the swallowed sobs taper off, replacing themselves with shaky breaths and whispered, “M’sorry, m’ _sorry_.”

“Shh.” She rocks him a little bit. “Don’t be sorry, this isn’t your fault, that fucker-” He cringes and she takes a deep breath, thinks of puppies and rainbows. “Never mind him. It’s gonna be okay, don’t apologize to me for **anything**.” She gives him another minute to get his breath back before asking, “Think you can keep some water down?”

No answer at first, then a hesitant nod. She props him back against the wall, brings him a water bottle, and re-soaks the washcloth. He won’t look at her now and his face is blotchy. She’s just laying the cloth across the back of his neck when her phone goes off. Shit, there’s the boss.

She lunges for it. Please let Batman be there, please let Batman be there…and hell, if that ain’t irony…

“Sir?”

“Tell me the boy hasn’t died in your care.”

“He’s, uh…” **Fine** is not the word she would use. “Conscious.”

“Excellent-if you find yourselves incapable of following such simple instructions, please tell me now so that I might find some competent help!” Cobblepot breathes deeply. “Idiots everywhere…keep him that way, Miss Marquis, I will not have Batman blaming me for his falling into a coma.”

“Sir-”

“No! Put that down! If you mess this up, I will personally put your family jewels in a nutcracker!”

He hangs up and Dove grimaces. Oh, well, it sounds like there’s…productivity…so really, what more can she ask for? Aside from, y’know, money raining from the sky and the Joker’s head on a pike. (That kindergarten…fucker better be grateful she didn’t bump into him. See how much laughing he’d do when she took his throat out with rust scissors, **get in line** , Harley Quinn.)

“That was the boss.” she informs Robin, who looks like he’s going to be sent to the guillotine. “Checking to see if you were okay.” He doesn’t answer, but some of the raw panic goes out of his eyes. She’ll take it. “Okay, where were we…is there anything I need to know about? Anything broken?”

“Cracked rib.” he mumbles. “S’okay.”

She can’t do jack for that, and if it was going to puncture a lung it probably would have done it when he flung himself at her earlier. Could be worse, then.

“Has he given you anything?” The panic’s back and she hastens to run damage control. “Robin, I need to know, if I need to take you to the hospital-”

“Just a sedative. I think.”

He’s not foaming at the mouth, and Batman will (hopefully) be here sooner rather than later, so…

“Okay. If you start thinking otherwise, _tell me_.”

“Mm-hm.”

She’ll just have to hope for the best. Batman, where the fuck are you?

He lets her finish rubbing a wet washcloth through his hair without a word, eyes downcast. There, that’s a little better. It’s the best she can do, anyway.

“Do you want a snack? Couple’a crackers or something?” He doesn’t seem to hear her-too busy looking at his hands. “Robin.”

“Jason.” he mumbles. “M’not Robin, he’d’a come for Robin ‘n he left me.”

That’s a can of worms she’s not going to open right now (ever).

“Jason.” she says instead, and he glances up. “You hungry?”

“Don’ think it’d stay down.”

“Okay.” She cracks her neck-ow. “Wanna sleep until Batman comes?” He shakes his head. “What about just lying down, hm?”

For a minute she thinks he’ll refuse, but then he eases himself back down. Cobblepot might have a blanket in here…she could swear she’s seen one…maybe behind the shovel…ah! Blanket. She gives it a flick in case of dust bunnies and pulls it over him.

“Here we go. Just rest, the boss’ll be back soon.” In theory. He’d fucking better be.

“Miss Marquis?”

“Yeah?”

He bites his lip and looks at the floor rather than at her.

W-would you…Penguin…Batman’s not gonna come.”

“Don’t be rid-”

“He’s not.” he says, and Christ, he believes himself. “S’okay, I know he’s not gonna come, but…I don’t wanna go back to _him_. Please.”

“Jason-”

“S’just…y-you’ve always been nice ta me ‘n…I don’t wanna go back, I _can’t_ , he won’t even let me _die_ -”

The way he says it gives her the horrible suspicion that he’s tried and she’s tempted, really, really tempted, to tell Batman to fuck off and take the kid to a hospital a few cities over.

He’s rambling now, sickeningly earnest and _Jesus…_

“Please, just…just make it quick, tha’s all, please…”

“Shh.” He stops, looks at her with desperate eyes. “I promise, that no matter what happens, Mr. Cobblepot is not going to just hand you back over. And Batman will come, kiddo, he’s been tearing this city apart trying to find you.”

“Don’t lie to me-”

“I’m not.” He doesn’t believe her, she can tell. “Sweetheart- _Jason_ -he’ll come. I promise. And even if he didn’t-for argument’s sake-we’d take you to a hospital.”

“You promise?” he whispers. “You **promise** , please-”

“Shh, I promise.” She doubts he believes her about Batman, but he doesn’t bring up the subject again. That’s all she can ask for, at this point. “Close your eyes and rest, honey, everything’s going to be all right.”

He pokes a finger through the blanket’s weave and nods. It’ll have to do.

She bunches up her sweater and tucks it under his head. He’s already drifting off, she can tell, and that’s really the best thing for him.

Robin-Jason-pulls the blanket into a small knot at his neck, breathing evening out, and she stands up to grab her phone and a chair.

“Please don’t go.”

She is not going to turn into a blubbery, homicidal mess. She is not.

“I’m not, baby.” She pulls the guest chair over where he can see her and settles in, brings up her messaging app. “Now shh. Just close your eyes.”

When she looks over a few minutes later, he’s asleep. Good. She shoots Charlie a text- **kid’s not dead** -and turns her phone to vibrate.

* * *

_Kid okay? Need me to get anything?_

Charlie. She’s tempted to tell him to go start murdering people until Batman shows up.

**He’s asleep.**

_K._

It’s been half an hour already, where the hell is Cobblepot?

Dove stretches and looks over at Jason. He’s still breathing. Good.

It’s another fifteen minutes before he stirs, breath hitching, and mumbles, “M-Miss Marquis?”

“Whatcha need, honey?”

Silence, then, “Think m’gonna be sick.”

She grabs an ice bucket and shoves it over. He gags and hangs his head down, hands gripping the bench to try and steady himself. All that comes up is water-probably nothing else in him to begin with-but the dry-heaving takes a few minutes to taper off, leaving him shivering and panting.

“M’sorry-”

“Shh.” She rewets the washcloth and wipes his face. “Okay, honey…want help back up?”

“M’okay, m’okay, m’sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry.”

He pulls himself back against the wall and she takes the bucket to rinse out. Brings it back, after, with a water bottle to rinse his mouth out. The phone rings a second later. About damn time, where the hell has that pointy-eared asshole been, having tea with Tetch?

“Sir?”

“He should be here at any time.” Cobblepot sounds tired, more tired than he’s been in years. There’s an alarm blaring in the background. Museum? Or bank? “He may be here already-I can never tell if these idiots forgot how to use the walkie-talkie or if they’ve been knocked out and left hanging off a stairwell somewhere.”

That’s…that’s fair.

“Do you need anything from me?”

“No.” Cobblepot sighs and she pictures him rubbing his knee. “No, just…keep him conscious, make sure he doesn’t decide to die from internal bleeding.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good-ah. I think he’s here.”

The alarm cuts and a second later he hangs up on her. She turns back to Jason, who’s rubbing his fingers against the blanket and looking at the lamp.

“I think they’ll be back soon.” she says, and he doesn’t look up. “Think you can go back to sleep?”

“Was just restin’ my eyes.”

She snorts despite herself.

“Sure. Wanna go back to that, then?”

She gets a stubborn head shake and a, “Can’t.”

She’s not surprised.

“What about lying down?”

“He’ll come back.” comes the soft reply. “When I can’t see him.”

That’s not at all creepy or anything, nope. She doesn’t wanna know.

“Okay.” She reaches over and tugs the blanket out of his fingers, wraps it instead around his shoulders. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

He holds it closed at his throat, fingers tight, and whispers, “Does he know?”

Dove makes an executive decision and sits down, tugs the kid over so he’s sort of propped in her arms. He’s shivering and pliable and she cringes because the Joker’s always been touchy-feely, you **know** he’s the sort to skip up going, ‘hey, kiddo, how about a hug for your dear old Uncle J?’ She loosens her arms a bit, so he can move if he wants to, but all he does is curl in on himself.

“No.” Hopefully not. Probably not. It’s too soon, surely it’s too soon. “You’re gonna go home, honey, I promise. If I have to hijack the Batmobile and drive you there myself-”

He laughs, a hysterical thing that promptly devolves into a fresh round of tears, and Dove wonders if Joker…he kills so many people. Gotham wouldn’t know, necessarily, if Robin’s (Jason’s) parents were among them, not unless he said so. And maybe not even then. Nobody listens to _what_ the fucker says, just checks to see if they need a different route to work.

Asking isn’t going to get her anywhere-he’s scrunched up under the blanket now, jerking with sobs, and she doesn’t even try. It’s better to just sit still and rub his shoulders and keep up a steady stream of comforting bullshit.

He cries himself out eventually, choked gasps devolving into uneven wheezes. Doesn’t try to sit up, though. Maybe he can’t.

“Some tourists tried to take a selfie with the boss last week.” she says, trying to keep her tone light. Jason shifts a bit, fingers gripping the blanket, and she can practically feel the confusion radiating off him.

“Hm?”

“Yeah. Strolled right in wearing-I shit you not, kid-Hawaiian shirts.” She rubs his shoulders and he tucks his head against her neck. “I thought Mr. Cobblepot would have a fit.”

“What happened?”

“We got ‘em out before anything bad could happen, but now every time he’s seen Hawaiian shirts he’s rubbed his hands together and hissed, ‘tourissssssssstssssss’.” He huffs a laugh and she feels him relax a little, shoulders limp against her ribs. Better.

What else…uh…

“So the power went out, oh my god…”

He’s asleep before she finishes that one (the boss never needs to know) and she lets him stay where he is. Poor kid. He shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. She said it for the first one and she says it now-Gotham’s nightlife is no place for children.

“Mm…”

“Shh, baby.” She squeezes him a little. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”

He falls silent, breath ragged against her collarbone. She leans against the wall, listening to the club and the traffic, and hopes Batman gets here soon.

* * *

She’s just starting wonder if Batman is dead (that’s the only excuse he can offer, now) when there’s a **VROOM!** a few blocks over. Jason twitches.

“Think that’s your ride, kiddo.” she says. “Think you can wake up a little?”

“Not here for me.” he mumbles against her neck. She gives him a little squeeze.

“Make ya a deal. If he’s not here for you, I will personally give you that vodka shot you ask for every time you come in here.”

“Mm.”

“Sound fair?”

He pulls himself up, face resigned, and she wonders, a bit, how many times Batman’d come by Arkham…since.

Cobblepot’s voice reaches her ears. He sounds cross, out of breath.

“-to shatter my door, _I will open it._ ”

Sure enough, the door opens and Cobblepot barely manages to get out of the way before Batman appears in the doorway. Dove scrambles aside and pretends not to hear Jason’s whine.

Batman stares at him and Dove is just wondering how bad it would be to gesture angrily (or outright call him an asshole) when he vaults across the room. Jason chokes out, “Dad-” before being gathered up.

“The clown knows.” Cobblepot says lowly. “Shut this place down, I won’t have him barging in here and leaving me with a pile of corpses to deal with.”

“Sir.”

She shoots Charlie a text, pauses, and shoots another saying that Robin’s gonna be okay. He sends her a smiley.

Jason’s clinging to Batman for dear life, face smushed against the armor. Batman manages to detach his cape and wrap him in it, murmuring what Dove will bet are the same platitudes she’s been saying all night. What else is there to say?

“God, what a night.” Cobblepot rubs his nose. “This was not what I was expecting.”

This wasn’t what anybody was expecting.

Batman rises, cradling Jason against his chest, and turns to them. He looks…tired. Here, in the dim lighting, with his child in his arms, he’s not frightening. Not anymore.

“Cobblepot.”

“Keep a better eye on your brats.” Cobblepot snaps, but there’s no heat in his voice, not really. “And get that damned clown under control.”

His jaw clenches and fucking _really?_ No.

“Take him home.” She doesn’t have to be nice. He’s not her boss, he’s not a client, he’s just a madman who dresses up like a ninja with bat ears. “He’s been through enough.”

He glares at her, but she’s right and he knows it. Jason twists a bit, flails a hand in her general direction, and mumbles, “Thanks. For…for.”

“You’re welcome, honey.” Sweet kid. “No vodka shot for you, huh?”

Batman’s glare ratchets up a few notches, but Jason huffs what might be a laugh, shaky and weak as it is, before pressing his head back into the man’s shoulder.

That, at least, spurs Batman into striding towards the door, still somehow dramatic even without his cape billowing behind him. Cobblepot sighs and limps to the window, leans against the frame.

“It’s been a night.”

“No shit. Sir.” she tacks on, but he doesn’t care for once.

“I said that clown was a new age, didn’t I? And look at this city, Dove. We’ve gone from being a nice, simple crime-run town to… _this._ ” He gestures, fingers flicking a little as though trying to brush invisible dust away. “Look at how far she’s fallen. Batman would have failed in a year without that laughing little bastard.”

He’s not wrong. Mob aside-because the mob is forever, she knows that now-crime had been down, after maybe six months of Batman. But then the Joker had come, and in his wake there had been others. Edward Nygma had taken an interest, seen someone worthy of his puzzles. Jonathan Crane, too, had seen a worthy test subject. And things had snowballed from there.

“Do you think he’ll come here, sir?”

Cobblepot snorts and moves slowly to his desk, sinking into his chair with a weary sigh.

“I’d like to see him try. If he’s got any sense he’ll lay low, keep out of the Bat’s way tonight.” He tips his head back and closes his eyes. Dove brings him a glass of water and one of those painkillers he doesn’t like to take. “I wouldn’t want to be him right now.”

He won’t care. He’ll laugh through busted teeth and probably go into excruciating detail of everything he did-or wanted to do-to Jason.

She almost hopes he does drop by. Give her an excuse to shoot his balls off, see how funny he thinks that is. Hell, she might get a medal for that one. Thank-you cards, anyway.

She sets about getting things cleaned up. She won’t be sleeping tonight anyway.

Cobblepot sets a-

What?

Really?

Is that a…

Yes. Yes, it is. That is, in fact, a golden penguin. The one from the museum. It is now on his desk, winking in the dim lights.

She can’t even be shocked anymore. This is the man who accidentally became the leader of a cult once. And smacked Killer Croc across the muzzle with an umbrella for threatening him.

Really, though, stealing something when Batman was (presumably) _right there_ …

Wow. He and Catwoman need to get together someday…no, no, that’ll end badly. She sees it coming.

“What do you need from me, sir?”

“Nothing.” He sighs and leans back into his chair, one hand rubbing his knee. “Nothing more tonight.”

THE END


	37. Masks, Pt. 11

AN: **You guys suck. I said-I FUCKING SAID-‘tell me if I’m about to get shot in the back! I don’t wanna die!’ And what do you do? Let me get almost murdered-for real this time-by a cannibal. Fine. Go ahead. Get mugged. I’ll help…the mugger, not you ingrates. Jeeze.**

Ignore the drama queen.

**Hell, you think bein’ mugged is bad? I’ll dangle your asses over Mercy Bridge! DURING A LIGHTNING STORM!**

Batman would probably have to show up, you do know that.

**God dammit…IN BROAD DAYLIGHT, THEN.**

Alfred would come.

**…book it, brats, before I risk it anyway. I find out any of you so much as THOUGHT about swiping a pack of gum…I DON’T RESPAWN, YOU KNOW. This isn’t a video game. THERE ARE NO DO-OVERS.**

Sorry this took so long. Fight scenes are hard, and THIS ASSHOLE can’t just pick fights with one assassin, oh, no. He has to piss off the whole bar.

**Part of my charm. ;)**

* * *

Some people (Bruce…) accuse Jason of not thinking things through, of being impulsive.

They’re not always wrong. He’s not thinking now, just moving-whirling to the side just as a knife strikes the scarred counter.

Well, he did say he was looking for Flamingo…

He grabs the nearest thing-a chair-and swings it up in time to block a knife. There’s a cheer from behind him and **aw, crap, they probably wouldn’t mind killing me.**

Not today, motherfuckers.

He vaults behind the counter, ignoring the bartender’s angry screech, and yanks her down. She tries to bite him, only to hurl herself flat against the floor when a bullet shatters a bottle behind her.

“Stay here!”

“Why’d you have to come in?”

Oh, this thankless job…

He fires back, hits a shoulder and a framed autograph (probably forged) and ducks down again when Flamingo shoots at him.

“He is mine!”

Jason’s always wondered if assassins have an honor code…

“You can’t afford me!” he shouts back, taking another shot. On the ground, the bartender looks torn between frightened and pissed. He’s hoping she stays scared-if she’s pissed enough to get involved, she might get herself killed.

Flamingo laughs and that’s **it** , Jason’s been laughed at by enough psychos in his life.

Okay. Flamingo’s two tables away from the bar. There’s three other guys scattered directly between them, six others in general. The bartender doesn’t seem inclined to burst out, broken bottle in hand.

Piece of cake.

He fires again, this time at the closest kneecap.

Or…tries to. The gun clicks.

**Sonofa-**

He’s throwing the gun before he can really think about it. It nails the guy in the forehead, bounces off, and skitters back over the counter.

 **Holy shit, that actually worked.** *

The guy he hit is looking at him with a dazed and insulted expression. It promptly turns to pain when Jason shoots him in the knee.

“Fuck-”

He goes down when a bullet whizzes past his head, hitting the guy behind him, and Jason takes a shot at a hanging lamp. It falls, clipping somebody’s shoulder and shattering on the sticky floor, sending glass shards everywhere.

“You asshole!”

“Priorities!”

“My bar is my priority, fucknut!”

He needs to get away from the bartender.

He jumps over the counter, narrowly dodging a bullet to the head, and shoots down another lamp. This one hits somebody head-on and they crumple, gun skittering under a table.

Flamingo apparently doesn’t feel as though his claim to Jason’s potential corpse is being respected, because he shoots one of the last few in the head, sending brains and bits of bone all over the floor. Jason can’t bring himself to care.

He can, however, bring himself to use it to his advantage.

There’s two more, and one of ‘em’s already stumbling from when the first lamp clipped him. Jason takes a swing at him, misses, and lets the guy retaliate. Flamingo shoots him, too, and Jason staggers back, trips over a chair (okay, that was an accident) and goes down.

Flamingo’s laughing, teeth bared, and he takes his sweet time swaggering over. He’s not gonna lie-any plan that ended with him flat on his back, watching a laughing lunatic come towards him…may not have been his best.

“Still feeling our last encounter? I am not.”

Liar. He’s trying not to, but Jason can see him favoring his leg a little.

“Screw you.”

“I expected more. Alas…”

Come on. Another few inches, man, come on…

**Gotcha.**

Flamingo brings his gun up just as Jason sweeps his legs out from under him, bringing him toppling forward. He grabs that fucking pink jacket and yanks him on top of him, the pressure triggering the electricity.

**ZAP!**

The sight’s almost comical-Flamingo’s eyes widen and his mouth flaps for a few seconds before he passes out, twitching like a fish. Jason kicks him off and scrambles to his feet. The last guy’s booked it. The bar…is a mess.

The bartender pokes her head out from behind the counter.

“You.”

“Sorry-”

“Get out.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“If I see you again,” she hisses, voice shaking with rage, “I will shoot you. And then I will run you over with my car. And then I will cut your fucking balls off and make you eat them.”

“I’ll just…take this with me-”

**“Leave.”**

He turns off the body-taser, hefts Flamingo off the floor and over his shoulder, and inches towards the door.

“I’m really sorry-”

She hisses at him- **hisses** -and he shuts up and inches faster.

* * *

He takes Flamingo to the nearest rooftop, sets him down, frisks him, and wakes him up by pinning him to the roof with a knife through his shoulder.

“Rise and shine!”

**“You-”**

“Me.” He waves and reaches over, flicks the knife a few times. “We gotta talk.”

Flamingo snaps at his hand and he pulls it back.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“There **is** , though. I wanna talk to the guy who hired you.”

Flamingo chuckles through clenched teeth.

“You are crazy.”

“So are you.” He flicks the knife again. “So where is he?” He doesn’t get an answer. That’s fine. He has the man’s phone. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Yes, he is an asshole. So sue him.

It’s fingerprint-protected and he grabs the nearest index-attached to the pinned arm. Flamingo hisses and tries to yank his hand away, but is unsuccessful.

“I’m in.” he mutters, because Babs always used to do that (maybe she still does?) when she logged into the Batcomputer and it stuck.

Flamingo is nothing if not professional-there are no texts and his call log is empty. Jason’s betting his voicemail’s empty, too. Humph.

Oh, well.

“We’ve got a couple of choices.” he says, stowing the phone in his belt after changing the security on it. “One, I can pull that knife down and you can bleed out in two minutes, tops. Two, you can tell me where you met Sionis and how that went, and I might feel generous enough to take it out carefully.” He leans over, hand on the hilt. “Or three, you can keep bein’ a stubborn prick and I break your teeth.”

Flamingo twists his head, looks at the knife.

“I met him in a warehouse.” he says, and Jason has the uneasy feeling this is going to end badly.

Oh, well.

“Keep talking.”

 

*It's a thing! He does it in _Injustice 2_.


	38. Masks, Pt. 12

AN: Updates will taper and stop for the month of October, because Dr. Crane will not be happy with me if I ruin his fun. And by ‘fun’ I mean ‘poor Gotham’. Come by, though! Jason gets dragged in for one story. I’m sure he’d appreciate a friend when it’s all over.

**DON’T INVOLVE ME.**

Too late! Relax. It’s not that bad.

**Crane’s psychotic and Richardson wants my lungs in a shadowbox.**

Yeah.

**How is that ‘not that bad’.**

_The more you fuss, the worse it will be, boy. I put in a request. I’m interested in seeing what’s got Miss Scarecrows’ attention._

**I’m busy. Can’t make it. Sorry.**

_You don’t have a choice. Your appointment’s on the third, don’t be late. Kitty’s dying to see you, as am I._

**It’s my appointment, I can cancel!**

_No. Until then, child…do try not to die, I’d be most upset if I were to miss out on our session._

* * *

**Wilde! Best friend! Got a favor to ask.**

He’ll be honest. He’s totally expecting Wilde to have changed his name and number and left town. Or at least try to put him off with a, ‘new phone who dis?’ But Wilde is a smart man, and responds.

**Will you go away if I do it?**

**…no. Flamingo said something about a warehouse…what was he talking about?**

No answer for several minutes. Jason’s just starting to consider going over there (hopefully he’s home…) when his phone buzzes again.

**I don’t know.**

**Don’t lie, it hurts my feelings.**

More silence. He tosses a little jar containing a few of Flamingo’s teeth (just in case he needs to prove that yup, they talked) up and down, wonders how weird it would be to put it on his bookshelf rather than in a cupboard. He could say he bought them off a guy, or that they’re a really good cosplay prop…fuck it, no one comes over anyway.

**C’mon, Wilde, finish your breakfast and tell me what you know.**

**WHERE ARE YOU.**

Oh. Talk about a lucky guess…is he psychic? He needs to investigate. For science. And also because it would piss Bruce off to no end…or maybe he just learned the art of the Lucky Guess from Alfred.

…

Nah, Alfred really is psychic. There’s no other explanation.

**:) Warehouse. Pretty please.**

Another long wait. Crap, he’s not running around, yanking down all the blinds or anything, right? The cat might be upset.

While he waits, he puts his helmet on, picks up the jar of teeth, and takes a selfie. When Wilde still doesn’t text back, he sends it. That provokes a response.

**I don’t know all the details, but there’s a shipment coming at dock nine, warehouse thirty-seven. Maybe that’s the one.**

Can’t hurt to go see.

**What time?**

**Eleven-thirty. Cops are paid off.**

Interesting.

**Thanks. Enjoy your breakfast, man, I’ll be in touch.**

He sets the jar on his bookshelf, tucked far back enough that it shouldn’t topple off or anything, and stretches. His shoulder twinges warningly and he rolls his eyes, makes his way to the bathroom to get a look at it.

It’s fine. Well. Considering. It’s not rotting off or anything horrible. Hurts, and he doesn’t trust it to hold his weight, but it’s…okay. Ish.

He yawns and shuffles back to the couch, rubbing his eyes and wondering if he wants a granola bar or if he’d rather put in effort and make pancakes. Eh, he’ll think about it.

Ahh. Couch. S’comfy, for cheap shit. Just enough support to keep his joints happy, but not so firm that it doesn’t feel like an embrace. Bonus-it’s long enough that he can stretch out without hanging his feet over the arm.

He rolls over, feeling things crack, and listens to the traffic outside. There’s honking and a screeched, “Watch where you’re going, you fucking cow!”

Oh, Gotham. Never change.

He turns his phone to vibrate and closes his eyes. He has the feeling it’s gonna be a long night.

* * *

Jason is convinced that nowhere rains as much as Gotham does. Seriously, the city is wet like…all the time. And if it’s not actively raining, there’s clouds. Sun? What’s sun? It’s yellow, right, and you can get burned if you stand outside in it for too long?

Huh. Maybe that explains the crime rate. Weather-induced madness, whatever.

He swings up on top of a heavy shipping crate, finds a spot that’s not flooded, and crouches down to wait. His mask affords him decent visibility, rain or not, and he watches the red shapes of people cluster together.

“…fuckin’ bullshit. Hate guard duty, man. Nothin’ ever happens.”

Well. You must be new, Chatty. Never fear, your new friend Red Hood is coming! That’ll be interesting, right?

Chatty’s friends agree.

“You fuckin’ serious? No, man, no. Watch for Batman, unless you want a surprise broken bone.”

Heh. They should be so lucky.

He shivers and shuffles forward a little. How many are there…four. Well, four out here, there’s gotta be more inside.

Ugh. If any of them have cattle prods again, he’s gonna be really mad.

The guards move apart a little and one heads towards his shipping crate. It’s not Chatty, which is a bit of a shame.

Oh, well.

He waits until the guy’s got his back turned before jumping down and landing on his shoulders. His knees give out and they both go down, but not before Jason gets his hand over his mouth and his arm against his throat.

“Shh…”

The man struggles-can’t blame him for that-but pressure points are amazing. He’ll come back for him later. Maybe.

Okay, one down, three to go.

He swings back up on top of his shipping crate. Surely they’ll notice when their friend doesn’t come back. Surely. Nobody’s that oblivious, right? Right?

Who is he kidding. Yeah, there’s plenty of oblivious people. Batman, even, has his moments. (Thanks for getting him out of Arkham, Bruce, really.)

There. One poor sucker, just out of sight of his comrades.

He jumps from crate to crate, the rain masking the sounds of his boots hitting metal.

“Where the fuck is Charlie?” Aw, crap. So soon?

“Prob’ly takin’ a piss.” Yup, go with that. No reason to go looking. “Relax, Mom.”

Loner scoffs and protects a cigarette with a gloved hand. Jason inches closer to the edge of the crate, water sloshing gently in the crevices. Some of it splashes over the side, hitting Loner’s shoulder. Shit. Now or never.

“What the-”

Loner looks up. Jason jumps him.

The cigarette hits a puddle with a _hiss_ and the lighter hits the ground with a quiet _clack!_

“Fuckin’ hell!”

Well. No subtlety here.

“Say night-night.” he coos, dodging a flailing fist and slamming Loner’s head into the concrete. There’s shouting and running and he doesn’t have time to check the body count right now.

**BLAM!**

“Mack! Report!”

Mack won’t be reporting anything.

“Hey!”

Time to go.

He pulls himself back up, guns firing below him, and jumps back across the crates.

“Who the hell was that?”

“Not Batman!”

Damn straight not Batman. Does he look like fuckin’ Batman? No. For starters, he knows what color is.

“C’mon, we gotta find Charlie.”

No, they gotta split up. Make this easier.

“What’s that?”

He hits the metal, flattening himself down into the wet and trying not to breathe. The red shapes stop directly below his crate, straining to see anything in the rain.

They’re not leaving. Why are they not leaving.

He squirms over to the edge and peers down. They’re plastered back-to-back, gripping their guns like lifelines. They show no sign of moving. Dammit.

“What?”

“Thought I heard somethin’.”

No. No, you heard **nothing** , what are you talking about?

“Uh-huh.”

Nah-uh.

“What’d you hear?”

Okay. He’s already busted. Nobody’s come out at the burst of gunfire, if he makes this quick…

He eases his gun back out of its holster and clicks the safety off.

* * *

Getting inside the warehouse wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be, but **now** there’s the joys of ‘watch where you drip’ and ‘those three bodies and one unconscious guy you left lying outside? Yeah, everyone knows and now they’re swarming the place looking for you’.

Oh, well.

He huddles up on a light fixture and looks down. Some of them cleared out, but most of them are still checking crates and shining lights into dark corners. Most of ‘em are armed, and unlike the dumbasses outside, they’re sticking together.

How many…eight. Okay. He can do eight.

He checks his guns, nods decisively, and drops silently down by the door.

“He’s here-!”

**BLAM-BLAM!**

Two of them fall. He permits himself a grin and calls, “I’m fuckin’ home, what’s the Wi-Fi password?”

The others surround him, but-and this is probably out of confusion-don’t attack him. Well? Come on, it’s only polite to let them make the first move.

(Also, do any of them have cattle prods? He is **not** in the mood for cattle prods.)

One of them peels away from the others. Fine. They’ll play hide-and-seek, then, once he’s dealt with these guys.

“What, do you guys not have Wi-Fi? Your boss is a cheap-ass-”

Some asshole in the back shoots at him. Credit where credit’s due, it’s only because he’s got good reflexes that he dodges it.

Then they swarm.

There’s something oddly soothing about the **crunch** of bones. That probably says something about him, but screw it-he spent a damn year, **over** a year even, tied to a goddamn wheelchair in a rotting asylum. If people find his way of coping unhealthy, they can take it up with the Clown.

He’s just kicked one into a pile of crates when the others back off. What? So soon? C’mon, he hadn’t even shot any of them yet- **what is that.**

That is not a man. He refuses to call that a man. It’s fuckin’ **huge** , almost Bane’s size, and he thinks back to the guy that booked it early.

Shit. This must be their security system.

Well. This is either gonna be fun, or it’s gonna hurt like a bitch.

The others have formed a semi-circle behind the behemoth and he hopes that means they’re going to stay outta the way.

The Big One shuffles towards him and for a minute he thinks, okay. Big ‘n slow, manageable. Then it rushes him.

There’s no time to move the next thing he knows, he’s been tackled to the floor, spine hitting cement and arms blocked from doing anything but flailing against the floor. There’s a cheer from…somewhere…and then there’s meaty hands around his neck. Electricity sparks and the hands tighten, jerking a little and **shit** he can’t breathe-

He kicks up, boots hitting what feels like a brick wall, and there’s a grunt. The pressure around his neck eases for a second and the weight on his right arm lessens just enough to move it.

He scrambles for his gun, fingers brushing against it, aaaand-

**Got it!**

Shooting people at close range is a messy, bloody affair and he **swears** he can hear the spine splinter. The thing slumps, grip loosening, and Jason kicks him off, gets to his feet, and glances down. Still breathing.

He puts it out of its misery and turns to the others. They’ve backed off and he’s aware that there’s an awful lot of blood on his clothes. Damn. He just got these cleaned.

“Well?” He turns his head towards the closest one. “You guys gonna tell me what I wanna know?”

The fucker grins at him.

“Heard you’d show up.” Yeah, he kinda figured. “We got somethin’ for ya, freak.”

“A present? For li’l ol’ me? Ya shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well, the boss thought ya deserved it.”

This is gonna be bad, isn’t it.

The lights go on the rest of the way, letting him read the label on a nearby crate: **Cybertron Industries**.

Oh.

Well, crap.

The guy’s still grinning at him. What, is he expecting some sort of reaction? This ain’t his first bank robbery, for cryin’ out loud. And it’s not like he knows what’s in there. Could just be circuit boards.

“Oh, my goodness gracious! I’ve been bamboozled!” he snarks. The grin grows wider, inching uncomfortably into Joker territory. Jason risks twisting a bit. Okay, so the warehouse is full’a boxes. Could be drugs, could be robotics. He’s not picking up any ninjas or explosives or anything, though, so…

What’s in the big box?

When he looks back, the guy’s holding a remote control. Before he can do anything, he pushes the button.

For a minute, nothing happens. Then the big box splinters as whatever’s in there busts out.

He doesn’t have time to look-it’s safer to grapple back up to the roof. The goons are scattering, mostly sprinting for the doors, and-

What.

What the hell.

He’s seen _Jurassic Park_ , okay? He knows a T-Rex when he sees it, robotic or not. What the hell, where did Sionis even-

The tail slams into the wall, making the building shake, and he is not equipped for this. Doesn’t matter-that thing gets out, they’ll be living the shitty sequel, only without the ugly-cute baby.

Why is this his life…

It stills, head swiveling from side to side. Maybe he blends in too well for it to pick him up…okay. Okay, he just needs to find a weak point. How hard can it be? Maybe it can be short-circuited or something.

It’s big. Life-sized, if he has to guess. Uh…okay, the eyes have that white glow Batman’s cowl’s eyes have when he’s got his scanner on, so there’s that…

Okay, he’s not gonna lie, he’s in a bit of shock. Yeah, there’s the one in the cave, but he never saw it do anything. It just stands there with its mouth open. This thing…look, he doesn’t want to get in biting range, is all.

That’s what smoke bombs are for.

He takes one, prepares to **move** , and kicks the beam he’s on, boot connecting with metal with a deafening **CLANG!** The thing turns, feet making the ground shake, and he tosses the pellet into its mouth and swings for it.

It snaps at him, jaws clapping shut with enough force to send a gust of air under his jacket. A second later, the pellet activates, smoke curling out of its mouth and nose. Holy shit, that actually-

It jerks, tail and head striking the walls, and the vibrations dislodge his line-and him with it. He hits the ground hard, shoulder streaking past ‘agony’ and straight to ‘move me and die’, and rolls out of the way of a giant foot. Okay. Okay, he can still do this, it can’t get out of the warehouse, that’s all that matters-

The head is enshrouded in smoke and it’s still flailing. Too late, Jason realizes that the creaking is actually **cracking** , and he bolts for it, ducking out a side door seconds before the warehouse crumbles. Gunshots ring out and he jumps off the pier, straight into the dark waters of Gotham Bay.

 


	39. Road Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dog had surgery recently. He’s fine, but I’ve been trapped in my house for over a week and he’s a terrible patient. He keeps trying to find paper to eat.

It’s Carol’s fault, because Carol is from fucking Metropolis and doesn’t know any better.

Doesn’t stop Sue from praying for a natural disaster. Or a supervillain attack. She’s not picky.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You cut him off!”

“I saw an opening!”

“You cut off the **Red Hood**!”

“Who’s that-fuck you too!”

SHE DIDN’T-no, no, that was someone else. Still, Sue scrunches down in her seat, fully prepared to lie-with tears and all-about being kidnapped when the guy catches up to them. She’s seen the news, for heaven’s sake, she knows what’ll happen. (That, and she’s seen his thighs, hot damn, she’ll gladly be a damsel in distress for that.)

From this angle, though, she can see him in the rearview mirror, bent over the handles of his bike and probably willing it to go fast enough for him to like…jump onto the roof of the car and punch through the window like the Winter Soldier.

They’re gonna diiiiiiie.

“I can’t believe you.” she moans. “Oh my god, oh my god, we’re doomed and it’s your fault and I didn’t even get to read the new Barker book, I hate you **so much**.”

Carol shrugs.

“What’s the big deal? It’s a guy on a bike. What’s he gonna do, follow us home and murder us for cutting him off?”

“YES!”

“Really?”

“That’s the Red Hood.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like Batman, but with murder.”

Carol pales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

“Oh, shit.”

Yeah. Oh, shit. **Now** she gets it.

“What do I do?”

“Pull over and let me out.”

“Uh-uh, you’re going down with me!”

“Let me out!”

“No!”

Sue weighs the odds of survival if she leaps from the car. Or, hey, maybe she can swing that kidnapped story if she jumps out now. Maybe she’ll get a ride on his bike…right there…touching…

Or maybe he’ll run her over.

“Oh god, oh god.”

“What?”

“He’s waving at me! Do I pull over?”

“NO. Drive. Drive away. Cut someone else off.” Like it’ll help, but maybe he’ll get sidetracked. “Speed, Carol, speed. Channel your grandma.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see him until you nearly hit him!”

“You need to tell me these things!”

“You need to not be an asshole on the freeway-oh. Oh god. Oh god.”

“What?”

Sue’s never been more grateful for her giant sunglasses. They make it easy to look like she’s staring straight ahead, rather than looking out the driver’s side window.

Where the Red Hood has pulled up.

“Don’t look out the window.”

“Why-”

**TAP-TAP!**

They scream and it’s only because Carol’s the type to freeze and not flinch that they don’t fly off the road. Sue, unfortunately, is the flinching type and she accidentally rolls down the windows.

“I was kid-”

“Your taillight’s out!” What. “Just so’s you know!”

Huh.

Wait. So…he’s not gonna rain down disproportionate retribution?

“Drive safe!”

Wait, wait, she’s been kidnapped, honest-

But he’s gone, zipping around the slow-ass Bug in front of them. Sue rolls the windows back up without really thinking about it and they drive in silence for a while.

“He sounds hot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like Batman, right?”

“Sorta.”

“Let’s walk down a dark alley.”

* * *

Alfred is just starting to become a little concerned when Jason pulls up to the manor.

“Sorry m’late, ran into traffic.” Alfred raises one eyebrow and the boy hastens to clarify, “Really, that’s all, it wasn’t my fault, someone cut me off and they had a taillight out.”

Alfred takes in the sight of him-even now, with his visor up, he is…intimidating-and suspects the perpetrators will never cut off anyone again.

“I see.” He holds out his hands for the groceries and Jason shakes his head. “I got this, Alfred.”

“I am not so frail as to be unable to carry a bag of groceries, Master Jason.”

Jason pales, eyes widening in a panic, and Alfred feels a bit of a pang at seeing the boy he’d been…before.

“I didn’t mean-! I just-I meant-”

Alfred chuckles and pats his arm.

“Come along. I will indulge you this once.”

“You did that on purpose.” Jason accuses.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know! I know you know! I about had a heart attack…”

Always so dramatic, this one. He shakes his head and closes the door behind them.

THE END


	40. Home Again

AN: Fun fact: The Funko Pop of B:TAS Batman is actually TERRIFYING for like, four inches of plastic. I’m convinced it’ll come to life and kick my ass if I ever decide to take up crime.

Follow-up to ‘Die For You’, and I want it on record that I didn’t wanna. I was happy to leave y’all hanging. But Jason is a better person than me, apparently, because-y’know when you have food, and your dog gives you the big ‘I’m hungry and I’ve never done anything wrong in my life, ever’ eyes, and you know it’s lying because you just fished a napkin out of its throat? But you don’t care because EYES? Yeah.

**Don’t say I never did anything for you.**

* * *

Bruce sighs and slumps forward in the chair next to Jason’s bed. It’s been a long night, and a long day-it’s nearly noon, judging by the light gray outside. Bruce has stripped himself of the cape and cowl, but other than that he hasn’t budged from the chair he dragged over.

Said chair hadn’t been moved since…since before, even-Jay used to like to read by the window. After everything, Bruce could barely come in here, never mind touch anything. Nothing’s changed. Alfred cleaned in here, the same as he did with every other room, but nothing’s moved so much as a centimeter.

Jason, for his part, hasn’t moved either, not since Bruce brought him up from the cave and tucked him into bed. It could have been worse, but…Bruce still has trouble, sometimes. Blinks and sees him lying _so still_ on what he now knows was Arkham’s icy floor.

He’s still now, like that, but Bruce can hear him breathing this time and…he’ll take it.

He looks at the unchanged room, skims over the mostly-finished essay on the desk and the red hoodie thrown over the chair (he’s outgrown that now, but it used to be his favorite) and chokes down a laugh at the Batman and Robin Funkos on the bookshelf. He’d forgotten about them. Jay’d found them on sale somewhere and set them up, snickering and saying, _Alibi made, B, the REAL Batman and Robin wouldn’t have plastic mini-mes._

Jason stirs a bit, muttering something indistinct, and Bruce blanks on what to say. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say anything-he’s not waking up, just squirming a little further under the blankets.

 _S’cold_ …

Bruce shudders, tries to ignore the intrusive memories of Jason gasping out what could have been his last bloody breaths in his arms. He is not successful.

He wants him to wake up. Now.

The urge to rouse him (it would be so easy, say he’s making sure he’s still responsive and what-have-you) is strong and he stands up, crosses to the bookshelf. Plastic Batman and Robin stare out into the room, Batman’s gaze angry and Robin’s wide-eyed. He’s not sure which one of his boys this is meant to be-the plastic, nearly-featureless little thing could be either of them. Could be Tim, too, on those rare occasions that he grows his hair out.

That might say something about him.

Jason’s breath stutters in his throat and Bruce teleports back across the room. He’s fine, everything’s fine. All the same, Bruce settles back into the chair, hands clasped between his knees to keep them from shaking Jay back to consciousness, and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long, as it turns out. Maybe another half an hour. Seems longer.

“Mm…Bruce?”

“Hey.” His voice is raspier than he intended and he swallows, tries to soften it. He thinks he fails. “How are you doing?”

“Y’know…gettin’ shot. Kinda hurts.” Silence. “Zero-ten, wouldn’ recommend.”

“You shouldn’t have done it.” He can’t help it. His response to worry is to scold, and Jason really should know better.

Normally this would provoke an argument. All it does this time is get him a loopy grin and a, “You’re welcome.”

“Jason-”

“Alfie’ll be pissed f’you yell’at me for nearly dying.”

Sometimes Bruce suspects that he does this sort of thing on purpose. All the same, it’s true, Alfred will be…displeased. He stores his lecture for later, when it will be acceptable, and risks drawing a few wayward strands of hair out of Jay’s face.

“Alfred has his own lecture for you, I’m sure.” The grin vanishes and Bruce indulges in a little grim satisfaction. If it’ll keep him from doing something stupid like this again… “Do you need anything?”

“For you to mind your surroundin’s next time. M’not always gonna be there to save your ass.”

“Jason.”

“No.” More silence. “M’still not sorry.”

Bruce takes it back. He wants him to go back to sleep and stay that way.

“I know.”

“Hey.” Jason pulls a hand, clumsy with sleep and injury, out of the blankets and tugs on the sleeve of Bruce’s robe. “Not your fault. Can make m’own ‘cisions.”

Yes, but there’s no reason for him to make self-sacrificing ones. Not on Bruce’s behalf, at least.

He bites back the urge to snap, _yes, poor ones_ , and instead focuses on the little Batman. The gaze is too judgmental (it should be, really) and he looks outside instead, watches a hawk fly by.

“B?”

“Mm.”

“Look at me. Please.”

He looks like hell-drawn and pale and hollow. But he’s not dead, despite (his?) the universe’s best efforts.

“Stop broodin’. S’distractin’.” He pauses, eyebrows wrinkling. “N’your face’ll stick ‘n then everyone’ll know you’re Batman.”

He tries to clamp down on the laugh, but from the look on Jason’s face, he’s not successful.

“Somehow, I don’t think it works that way.”

“M’fine. So stop.”

Bruce sighs and slumps further into the chair. Outside, the clouds thin over the sun, just a little.

Fine. Bruce doesn’t consider this anywhere in the realm of ‘fine’, though it’s preferable to those mornings where he woke up and…forgot, for a minute, that Jay was…gone. At least right now Bruce can see him being not-fine. It’s better than the alternative.

“Go back to sleep.” he rasps, accidentally veering a little too close to Batman’s growl. Jason either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“’Kay.” He yawns and drags his arm back under the blankets. “Go brood downtown f’ya gotta.”

“Good night, Jay.”

“Mm.”

His breathing evens out and Bruce knows he should go to bed, but…

He isn’t brooding. He is making a conscious effort to exude…calmness. Or at the very least, neutrality. And this chair is comfortable-no wonder it saw so much use.

He’ll just…stay here. And not brood.

Maybe close his eyes, those clouds are too thin and he doesn’t really want to get up and close the crack in the drapes.

THE END


	41. The Hardships of a Bookworm

AN: I was this kid. To this day I’m not sure if my parents knew and let me suffer the consequences, or if they were oblivious. (I’m thinking they knew, but they can be amazingly oblivious sometimes, so…life’s mysteries.)

LOOK AT HIM HE WAS ADORABLE ONCE UPON A TIME OH MY GOD THERE WAS HAPPINESS.

**Adorable my ass.**

*squees* By the way, this collection has two playlists on 8tracks. See profile for link.

* * *

Jason’s gotten this down to what he considers an exact science. One book in the obvious under-the-pillow spot, another in the less obvious under-the-mattress, one more in the nightstand (so obvious Bruce sometimes doesn’t look there) and the one he’s really reading crammed behind the headboard.

What? He’s not gonna let a little thing like ‘bedtime’ stop him from finding out if Sam’s gonna rescue Frodo or not.

That, and if he’s bein’ real honest, Bruce’s steadily despairing expression every time he finds a new book is…well…it’s hilarious.

He starts out hopeful, y’see, that Jason’ll have learned that he’ll always check and be responsible and go the fuck to sleep. Book-under-the-pillow, okay. Pretty standard. (And yeah, he’s tried excuses. ‘Pillow’s too soft, B!’ ‘S’like a security blanket, I need it there in case I have a nightmare!’ They didn’t fly.)

“Jason…” Bruce’s hand comes out of the mattress with book two. “Really.”

“M’stubborn, what can I say?” He shrugs, tries for ‘winning smile’ and probably gets closer to ‘horror movie child smile’. Oh, well. “When’re ya gonna figure that out?”

Bruce sighs.

“You have school in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to sleep, not stay up until two.”

“You let me stay up ‘til two fighting criminals!”

“Not on school nights.”

Humph.

He rolls his eyes and scowls. Bruce pulls book three out of the nightstand-well, shit, he’s learning-checks the sham pillowcases, and dumps the stack on the desk.

“Good night, Jay.”

“Night, threat to literacy.”

Bruce clicks the light off and leaves. Jason gives him five minutes before digging out his penlight (they can’t take that, what if the power goes out and he falls down the stairs in the dark and DIES?) and rummaging around behind the headboard.

Uh.

It was here literally fifteen minutes ago.

What the hell? Do they have, like, giant pack rats or something?

He slips out of bed, wondering if maybe it fell a bit too far over. He can still get it out if that’s the case, he’ll just grab his lap desk and maneuver it out, but he could **swear** …

There’s a light cough behind him and he stills, knowing that this is it, he’s dead.

“Looking for something, Master Jason?”

He can still get out of this. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Thought I heard something?”

“Hm. Then this fell behind the headboard on its own?”

Shit.

He turns around. Sure enough, Alfred is holding his book, ribbon sticking out of it and everything.

“Maybe?”

Alfred raises one eyebrow and Jason sheepishly gets back in bed.

“Good night.”

“Night, Alfie.”

Alfred, the monster, does not set his book on his desk. He carries it out with him, leaving Jason to ponder over new hiding spots.

Out of desperation, he inches out of bed and moves towards his desk. He’s just reaching for the book on top when there’s a light cough outside that **could** be coincidental, if Jason were so naïve. He vaults back in bed and scowls at the door, arms crossed. They don’t know how good they have it! He could be sneaking out to party or something!

Whatever. He’ll come up with a new spot tomorrow, one that even Alfred won’t find, and they’ll see who’s laughing then.

THE END


	42. Late Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, of course, Joker ruined everything six months later. Because he’s just so GOOD at that.

Bruce almost doesn’t register that the lump of blankets in the library is a **breathing** lump of blankets.

He pauses, backtracks, and peers over the back of the couch. Jason’s curled up under the cushy blankets that are usually scattered in this room, throw pillow under his head. His breathing’s still got a rasp to it that screams, ‘flu!’ and his face is flushed. Bruce made him stay home tonight. He wasn’t happy about it.

He reaches over to shake him awake and tell him to go to bed, thinks better of it, and peels the blankets off him to pick him up. He’s grown again, and really, he’s too big to be carried, but Bruce has the sneaking suspicion he didn’t intend to sleep down here. Waking him up’s not worth it.

The jostling of the stairs wakes him a little anyway, sets him curling against Bruce with a sleepy cough.

“Mm…Dad?”

The warm feeling is, of course, unrelated. It’s tiredness, that’s all.

“Shh, Jay-bird. Go back to sleep.”

“’Kay.”

He’s out again by the time Bruce lays him in his bed, doesn’t even twitch at the hand laid against his forehead. Still warm. No school tomorrow, and oh, he won’t like that. Bruce has spent the week hearing some very…creative…curses directed towards the original flu-ridden party. Some of the better ones include, ‘a sinus infection on Thanksgiving’ and ‘Wii remote batteries die while they’re playing _Animal Crossing_ and there’s no spares in the house’.

Bruce pulls the blankets up over him and lays an extra one at the foot of his bed (he hates being cold, carries handwarmers in his Robin belt to avoid it).

“Sweet dreams, Jay.”

Jason doesn’t stir. Bruce ducks out of his room, closes the door most of the way, and retreats down to the kitchen for a post-patrol snack.

THE END


	43. Mea Culpa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the comics proper, Jason’s birth mom sold him out to the Joker. (Mother of the Year, ladies and gentlemen.) He still tried to save her. Failed, but. Still. *sniffles* DC, I think I’ll just take him off your hands. You can have him on weekends after you’ve delivered an essay, typed, size 12 font, 1.5 spacing, three pages, on what you did wrong. AND I’LL KNOW IF THOSE SPECS ARE RIGHT. I write for a living, fuckers, I CAN TELL.
> 
> Disjointed narrative is very much intentional-fear toxin’s nasty. Wouldn’t recommend it.

He doesn’t mean to. Crane isn’t there when he arrives and yeah, Batman said wait, but there’s vials and all he can see is that little boy, strapped to a gurney and screaming so hard Jason’ll swear his voice box is going to explode somehow.

They gotta get a sample so’s they can make an antidote. This shit’s permanent sometimes ‘n even when it isn’t it’s awful.

So he heads for the vials and the door slams shut behind him, drowning the room in shadow.

 ** _“Well, well. Look at this! A little bird, so far from the nest.”_** Jason stills, trying not to breathe too deeply just in case. **_“Do you know what I do with fallen birds, Robin?”_**

It takes everything he’s got not to retort. Crane’ll pinpoint him if he speaks, he just knows it.

Raspy laughter echoes through the black room. Closer? Farther? Fuck, he can’t tell…

**_“I wring their necks.”_ **

RIGHT THERE.

Jason brings his elbow back, connects it with bony ribs, and snatches a vial before running for the door.

Or trying to, anyway. Crane’s a resilient motherfucker, and fast-Jason’s almost across the room when there’s the tell-tale _click-ssssspraaayyyy!_ of his wrist mechanism and the air becomes bitter.

Shit-

**_“Deep breaths, child.”_ **

nonoNoNoNONONONONO

The door flies open and what Jason can only figure is a monster appears, dripping oil (blood) all over the place.

**“Robin-”**

It’s here for him.

**SCHWING!**

The monster dives to the side as a blade sticks in the door a-and something else

**The hell is that what does it want what’s wrong with its eyes**

launches itself at it. Scarecrow cackles and Jason bolts, sprinting up the steps and vanishing into the nearest dark alley, jumping from a dumpster to a fire escape and from there clambering onto the roof.

He’s gotta get home. Mom…Mom’s sick, he’s gotta be there, he promised he’d be there, he promised, he promised-

It’s autopilot that gets him anywhere unharmed, and he’s halfway there when it hits him that it doesn’t matter if he promised, Mom’s dead, she’s dead and she doesn’t know if he’s there or not and it’s his fault for not bein’ better at takin’ care of her and-

A wave of nausea hits him and he stumbles to his hands and knees on a cold platform, metal slick against his skin, and pukes. There’s hardly anything in him

**There never is**

and he wants to get up, find somewhere safe, but his limbs can’t hold him and he ends up huddled on the platform, arms over his head and hoping to whomever’s out there

**Nobody nobody’s out there nobody looks out for me**

that the oil

**Blood**

monster doesn’t come. There’s a noise and he scrunches up as best he can, muscles trembling at the effort.

**Please just once just once I don’t want please**

“Robin?” The voice is distorted with rain and he squeezes his eyes shut. Don’t answer, don’t answer, it’ll go away if he’s quiet. “You okay, kiddo?”

More noise. The platform quakes and chilly hands tug at him, tilt his head back. Fingers press to his neck.

“Shit…” Huh? “Okay, kid, okay, whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real, okay? You’re okay, sweetheart.”

That’s not possible it’s not it’s not b-but m-m-maybe it is people walk outta the afterlife all the time in myths ‘n maybe-

“Mom?” Please. Please, there’s gotta be somethin’ to those stories ‘n if anyone would-

Nausea hits him again, harder than a punch to the gut, and he struggles up, gagging. There’s nothing left to come up. Gotta get up. Gotta-

“No-no, honey, you gotta stay here, okay? You’ll fall.”

She doesn’t look right but maybe that’s a side effect of resurrections and it doesn’t matter anyway he’s gotta…she’s gotta know…

She’s standing up too and he tries to hug her, to make her listen, **please** , and nearly falls. She doesn’t let him. She doesn’t let him and she should’ve ‘cause it’s his fault ‘n people never walk out without a price.

“M’sorry.” he chokes. “M’sorry, m’sorry, I tried, I did, please-”

Hands stroke his head and he curls into her lap. What if the oil-monster’s here for Mom, he fucked up-

“Shh, shh, it’s not your fault.” He wants to believe her. He **wants** to. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”

She’s warm, like she used to be

**Cold corpse on colder tiles Mom no please come back don’t leave me here**

and he hugs her with everything he’s got.

“Don’t go.” he begs. “Don’t go, please don’t leave me, I’ll be better, I promise, just please-”

“Shh. I’m right here. I’m right here. Try to calm down, okay? You’re all right.”

He can’t breathe. His lungs hurt and he can’t breathe. Maybe Mom’s not back, maybe he’s dying and she’s here to take him with her.

But that’s okay.

* * *

He’s fighting for breath when there’s a nearly imperceptible _whip_ and a soft _thud._

God no no please not **him** -

He scrambles up, or tries to, and Mom-

-Mom keeps him still.

“Shh, shh, he’s here to help, it’s okay.”

It’s not it’s not okay! Doesn’t she see?

He stops struggling. He’s tired ‘n if it’ll take him and go and leave her here…

She’s rocking him a bit, making soft shushing noises and running her fingers through his hair like she always used to do when he had a nightmare, and he’s terrified b-but…

**Be brave, Robin.**

He doesn’t know that voice. It’s familiar, kinda, and he knows he’s Robin, whatever the fuck that is, and…okay. Okay.

His muscles give out and too late he realizes he didn’t say goodbye, but by then the monster’s gathering him up in leathery wings and it’s too late for that.

THE END


	44. Masks, Pt. 13

AN: So the rex makes more sense than you’d think, I swear. Okay. So in _City_ , there’s one in Penguin’s museum, right? And I was convinced that it was gonna jump-scare me, and a little bummed when it didn’t. Between that, the one in the Batcave, and Amazo in _Under the Red Hood_ (android that can absorb the abilities of metahumans), you get this thing. There’s no stopping it now.

This is a good stopping place, yes? See y’all in November!

**I tried to stop it. Sorry. Uh…hope I don’t die.**

* * *

Jason surfaces, fingers scrabbling at the catches of his helmet. It’s many things, but waterproof is not one of them and when he pulls it off, it dumps a shit-ton of water on his head. A bullet hits the water not six inches from him and he dives back down, swims under the dock and comes back up. This is not his night. He is not dressed for swimming. Shoulder aside, his jacket and boots are **heavy.**

He puts his helmet back on and twists backwards, hoping things still work. Eh…sorta. There’s lines of static when he tries to go to infrared. For safety’s sake, he turns the body taser off, even though he’s pretty sure it would have malfunctioned by now if it was gonna. Okay. He’s wet, his guns are wet, his helmet isn’t working right, and his shoulder is not a happy camper. He miss anything?

…

Uh…nope. Nope, that’s it.

“Where is he?”

“Maybe you hit him.”

“The bot still working?”

There’s no shaking ground or screaming. He can see the general outline, even with his fucked-up helmet, but it looks like it’s just standing there.

“I shut it down. Get in there and find him.”

“We hit him, he’s dead.”

“Then fish his corpse out, dumbass.”

Oh. They’re…slightly smarter than your average mook. That’s bad.

“You go fish it out, asshole.”

“I’m in charge of the remote.”

“Give it here, then!”

“No! Now get in there before I push you in there!”

He’s gonna regret this, he knows it, but he’s out of ideas.

He propels himself upwards, grabs hold of the edge of the dock, and swings out of the water.

“Shit-!”

Surprise.

He kicks one off-balance, sending the fucker’s knee way too far sideways and his gun skittering into the water, and sets his sights on the one with the remote. They go down hard and Jason’s got his arm across his neck and his other hand grabbing for the remote when a gunshot rings out and the guy’s head…spatters…, blood and bone and brain flying up to stick to his helmet.

This is gonna be bad.

He scrambles up, intending to dive back off the dock or grapple out of reach, and promptly changes his mind.

The bullet currently residing in the mush of head came from a gun in the hand of Roman Sionis. Damn, it’s been a while. Jason would love to say he’s aged poorly, but, well…he can’t prove that.

Eh, he’ll say it anyway.

“Wow, Sionis, you look like shit. Bad facelift? Accident with the Botox?”

“The big, bad, Red Hood.” The mask gives the guy’s voice a creepy echo-y quality that grates on Jason’s ears. “Eh, I’m not impressed.”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Okay. Sionis has two guns that he can see (he’s sure there’s more, he’ll double it for a safe estimate and add some knives, because only an idiot doesn’t have a knife in this town), three guys with an equal or greater number of weapons, one guy with a minigun (really?) and another guy with two very nasty-looking dogs that Jason will swear are related to the Hound of the Baskervilles.

The robotic t-rex (he’s not just gonna think too hard about that, he can’t) is not helping. It’s still standing there, jaw open, and he doubts there’s only one remote.

There’s only one explanation for this. He’s cursed.

Oh, well. Someone out there must like him at least a little, or he’d be dead. Or maybe he’s like…a cosmic joke, in which case there’s one thing he really does well: throw both middle fingers to the sky and proclaim, “Not today, motherfucker.”

Metaphorically. Mostly.

His grappler still works-a little water never hurt it-and there’s an emergency smoke pellet that he keeps in his sleeve that might still be viable.

It’s the best he’s got, and he can do better once there’s not guns and dogs and the risk of immediate death.

“Aw, it’s okay, you don’t have to be jealous.” he says, twisting his wrist to dislodge the pellet. “Black’s your color, Roman. Takes a special kinda person to wear red and make it work.”

Sionis snorts. It’s creepy with the echoing effect. Really, if Jason’s gonna be honest with himself, **he’s** creepy. Blank masks do, indeed, work wonders for making things unsettling at best.

It’d make great wall décor, though.

“Do you ever shut up, kid?”

_“Oh, go on, Todders, make a little noise, don’t hold back on me!”_

His fist clenches and he nearly misses the pellet when it drops out of his sleeve. He grabs it though, palms it and moves his other hand towards his thigh.

“Just tryin’ to break the ice. I mean, before we get to the face-breaking part.”

“You got balls kid, I’ll give ya that.” Got it! “I could use someone like you…if you’d shut up.”

“No deal.”

He hurls the pellet against the ground and draws the grappler.

Nothing happens.

**You gotta be kidding me!**

Sionis radiates amusement.

“Well, you get points for-”

And then a cloud of smoke erupts. Jason’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he pulls himself onto a shipping crate, and from there onto the roof of the closest warehouse.

The smoke’s already dissipating, probably in part due to the hail of bullets flying through it. The dogs are barking and Sionis is bitching a blue streak. That’s fine.

He cracks his neck and swings back behind them, grips the nearest head, and twists.* There’s a **crack** , followed by instant limpness, and the shadowy form of a dog turns around. Jason grapples back to the shipping crate and drops flat against the top, water sloshing into his sleeves and gloves and against his neck.

“Shit-”

“Let ‘em off the leashes, you moron!”

No, no, don’t do that-

There’s the **clink-clink** of leashes being removed and both of them come sprinting towards the crate, barking furiously.

Shit.

He takes his gloves off and tosses them to the ground behind the crate before moving to the other warehouse. The dogs don’t follow, but he doubts they’ll be fooled for long.

The dog’s handler is hot on their heels and Jason swings down, kicks him over, and relieves him of his gun before hitting him in the head with it.

“There! Red Hood!”

Whatever do you mean?

The dogs, unfortunately, come tearing back around and one of them lunges at him as he pulls himself up, teeth snapping shut centimeters from his boots.

**Better than the other set of teeth I’ve seen tonight…**

Where the hell is Sionis?

“C’mon, you goddamn idiots, it’s one man!”

How many times has he heard that-or said it, for that matter? And how many times did it matter?

Heh. They’re adorable-there!

Sionis is sticking by the minigunner. Jason weighs the gun in his hand, checks to see how many bullets are in there (five) and eases himself flat against the rooftop. He’d rather have his sniper rifle for this, but oh well…

**BANG!**

The minigunner staggers, suddenly lacking a head, and goes down. The minigun sprays a few bullets when it hits the ground and Sionis swears, turns wildly before taking a potshot a bit too close to Jason’s location for comfort.

“Come down, you little shit!”

Like hell.

The rex isn’t moving. As much as he doesn’t want to, it’s also the best location to swing to.

**There’s worse ways to die, I guess…**

He grapples over, lands on its head, and hopes that doesn’t jar it into turning on or something. Damn this rain…and Sionis’ insistence on having a black goddamn head and wearing a raincoat like a sensible person…at least the Joker wears purple-not gonna go there.

**Head in the moment, Jason.**

He works his way onto his stomach, pebbly skin squeaking unpleasantly against his armor, and squints through the rain. Okay…shoulder shot. It’ll hurt like hell, shouldn’t be immediately fatal, but can make Sionis a little more willing to chat about, say, the **giant fucking robot dinosaur.**

He fires-just as Sionis moves literally two inches over. SHIT-

Sionis whirls and mashes a button. There’s the whirring of motors beneath him and the robot comes to life, head jerking to the side too fast for Jason to brace himself. He flies off, landing back in the water below, and surfaces to look down the barrel of a gun.

“Word of advice, kid.” Oh, screw you, he’s an adult. “Don’t go pickin’ fights you can’t win.”

**BANG!**

 

 

*I swear to god, everyone’s peripheral vision must be awful, because there’s been times that I was literally **right there** , murdering/incapacitating someone, and their buddy **did not see me.**

 


	45. Masks, Pt. 14

AN: **I hate October. I hate it. M’not proud, I’ll admit it. October’s a bullshit month and next year I’m leaving town.**

Eh, you’re fine. You lived.

**Not for lack of tryin’!**

Ignore him, he’s exaggerating.

**I AM NOT. I GOT FEAR TOXINED AND SHOT.**

Shh, shh. To recap: shit went sideways. So let’s try to get it right-side-up, huh?

**I regret my life choices. All of them. I should’ve done the smart thing and gone splat the first time Bruce gave me that damn suit.**

Now, now, it’s not that bad.

**So much could have been avoided.**

The song Jason’s brain throws up is ‘Daydreamin’ (the Ostrich Song)’-fans of _Scooby-Doo_ might recognize it.

* * *

**BANG!**

Jason will admit that his reflexes are one of the few things he’s genuinely proud of. He’s always had good ones, even as a kid. (Must’ve been a side effect of picking pockets.)

So he’s going back under just as Sionis pulls the trigger. Even so, the bullet strikes the water directly behind him.

He swims under the docks, sensing bullets hitting the water a bit too close for comfort. Shit-shit-shit-

“Get up here and face me like a man!”

There’s so many ways to pick apart that sentence, but he’s just going to shut up and not die.

Okay. If he’s careful-

Wait. S’that a siren?

He stills. On the docks above him, Sionis and his boys are silent. Sure enough, the faint **WHEEEEEOOOOOOOOO!** of a black ‘n white is audible.

Ugh.

See, that’s the thing ‘bout Gotham. No one ever believes that the cops show up, because if they did, Batman wouldn’t be necessary. Thing is, they do. Sure, they might be late, and they might be corrupt at times, but if there’s gunfire, they will actually come see what’s going on. Normally, Jason wouldn’t mind too much, but they tend to see ‘red helmet’ and go ‘oh hey, target practice!’

It almost- **almost** -makes him miss the days of the yellow cape. ‘Least they didn’t shoot at him then.

“Shit.” Oh-ho. Sionis doesn’t have anyone on his payroll, then. That’s interesting. “C’mon, get it outta here, let’s go.”

What? Get what, the giant robotic dinosaur? Really? Oh, please-WHOAH THERE NELLY.

The water sloshes and knocks him against one of the cement legs. What the hell-oh. Oh, fudge sundae on the ground.

The rex (when did his life become the second _Jurassic Park_?) is moving, the weight shaking the ground and the water both. There’s shouting, and the barking of the dogs, and he risks paddling out into the open water.

Wow. Sionis can **move** when he really wants to. The lights are just startin’ to get visible in the distance and he and his boys are already mostly in the cars. The rex is in a semi, hunkered down with glassy eyes, and he really, really has to wonder **why**. Fun? Is it for fun? Intimidation? Some weird, Riddler-worthy gimmick? Maybe he’s got a buyer.

As much as Jason would like to stick around and do some investigating, the cop cars are screaming around a corner and he’s not in the mood to be shot at again tonight. The cold water’s making everything stiff and his shoulder’s threatening to let him drown if he doesn’t get out and get it warmed up.

He hauls himself out of the water just as the last of Black Mask’s vehicles peel out onto some back road. Damn. He can’t track them like this-one wrong move and he’ll fall to his death or worse.

Wet, tired, and despondent, he retrieves what remains of his gloves and grapples onto the nearest building just as the cops pull up.

“There!”

But he’s long gone by the time they get out of their cars.

* * *

He collapses on a roof halfway there and pulls his helmet off, slumps back and tries to breathe. He needs to go home, warm up and dry off-Inner Alfred is tutting and muttering darkly about hypothermia and pneumonia, and it’s almost as guilt-inducing as the real Alfred, but…

**Cold water fabric over his mouth ‘n nose WHAT’S THAT TODDERS I CAN’T HEAR YA OH YOU’RE THIRSTY HERE YOU GO!**

Breathe. He can breathe just fine now. A few minutes and he’ll get back up, he just needs a few minutes.

He doesn’t realize what rooftop he’s crashed on until a window below him slides open and Lisa Giles pokes her head out.

“Mister Red! You’re okay!”

“Hey, kiddo.” Lisa’s a good kid. Single mom-Maria’s a nurse, works nights, married an asshole who bailed. He tries to drop by when she’s gotta work, make sure there’s no weirdoes or whatever. They leave him first-aid refills sometimes. “How’s it goin’?”

“The news said you fell.” Aw, crap. He’ll cop to it, there’s no defense against the accusations of an eight-year-old. ‘Specially when they’re true.

“Looked worse than it did.” He holds a finger to his lips. “S’our little secret, though, okay?”

She scowls and points a judgmental finger at him.

“You’re bleeding.”

What? No-oh. Oh, that’s not water. Er…

“Paper cut. M’fine, kiddo, but it’s past your bedtime.”

She ducks back in and he’s about to leave when her hand pops back out, paper clutched in it. He recognizes the paper as a band-aid.

“Mom says you gotta cover your cuts or they get infected.”

“Your mom’s right.”

“So do it.”

He climbs down, takes the band-aid (those yellow things that are everywhere these days) and sticks against the cut on his forehead. It’ll probably come right back off in like five minutes, what with the water, but oh well.

“Well? Think I’ll live, doc?”

She giggles and promptly hides it behind her hand.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Lock up, Lisa.”

“Bye, Mr. Red!”

He was right about the band-aid-he doesn’t even have his helmet back on before it peels off. He stuffs it in his pocket (all it’s gonna take is Bruce going ‘oh, litter, better test it in the name of JUSTICE’ for the entire Bat-squad to come crashing through his window).

The streets are quiet tonight, not even a mugging to stop, and he clambers through his window at a little past two. God, he’s tired…shower. Warm up, clean off the grime of Gotham’s waters, and bed.

* * *

Jason’s still damp from his shower and he’s still not warm when he collapses into bed, slithers under the blankets, and passes out. This proves to be…problematic-he wakes up an hour later, head pounding, back arched and mouth stretched open in what he’s hopin’ was a silent scream. It’s still dark outside.

He doesn’t remember. He usually doesn’t, which makes him worry, sometimes, that Joker’d…fuck, who knows, really…built a bomb into his chest or something that’s gonna go off at random. Unlikely, but…

He pulls himself onto his side, bunching the loose ends of the blankets into a lump in his arms and pressing his head against his pillow. His heart’s pounding and his throat hurts.

The streetlights slip through a gap in his drapes, casting unsettling shadows on the floor.

**Daydreamin’, head in the sand…daydreamin’, gee but it’s grand…I’m in love with an ostrich…all the neighbors complainin’…**

He blinks and the song-as vivid as though someone left it on in the other room-stops abruptly. Wha…he needs to sleep. Time s’it, anyway…three thirty? That’s it?

Closing his eyes brings the song back. He remembers his mom singin’ it on…on better days. Used to make him laugh.

He can’t remember her voice anymore, and that realization hits like a gun butt to the head, sends him curling around his pillow and pretending not to notice that it’s steadily getting wetter. Eventually, the need for sleep pulls him back under and the next time he opens his eyes, it’s morning rush hour.


	46. Masks, Pt. 15

AN: Poor baby…oh, well.

**Bury me in my leather jacket…**

The one held together with a safety pin?

**…and…and someone…someone make sure that my middle fingers are firmly facing upwards…**

Oh my god.

**Tell Dick I’m not sorry for stealing his leftovers…**

You’re not dying.

**…and tell Bruce I really did take the Batmobile for a joyride and scratch the shit out of it when I was thirteen, it wasn’t Ivy’s vines.**

Jesus…

**I…regret…nothing.**

* * *

It’s settled. His life is a cosmic joke.

He’s **sick.**

He denied it. He clung desperately to ‘slept with my mouth open’, and, later, ‘allergies’, but in the end, he had no choice but to accept that yeah, the Red Hood: Scourge of the Underworld is down and out with the common cold.

It’s probably the fuckin’ zombie virus. It’s Gotham, that’s how they roll.

He hopes Sionis gets this, only worse, and sneezes all **over** the inside of his mask, coating his face with green, slimy mucus.

He rolls over for another tissue, coughing thickly, and hacks up a mouthful of exactly that. Ugh. Leave him to die…no, no, that’s **hyperbole** , please don’t.

He should go out, he thinks hazily. Yeah, he’ll probably get himself killed for reals, but he could leave people with a parting gift.

It’s tempting, but really, he can barely sit up without crippling dizziness. Actually leaving the apartment? Not gonna happen.

Who did this to him. Who is responsible for this? When he finds out, Heaven help the fucker responsible. No. No, never mind about what he can do to them. What he wants is for them to be playing _Animal Crossing_ , and for the remote battery to die, and for them to have no other compatible batteries, thus forcing them to lose their shit and suffer Resetti. Yes. That’s fair.

He nods in satisfaction and immediately regrets it.

**Your mother was a broken toaster and your father licks parking meters, Unknown Infector.**

His phone-his traitorous, traitorous phone-rings and he flails for it, desperate to stop the screaming. He succeeds in knocking it onto the floor, where it slides under the bed. No. No. Now he has to hang **upside-down**.

Whoever’s calling wants him dead. They must.

He hangs off the bed, keeping his head as upright as possible, and zeroes in on the bright light. It goes off just as his fingers brush it and he…honestly can’t feel too bad. He goes from ‘oops’ to ‘fuck you with a crowbar’ when the voicemail proclaims (oh so cheerily) that, ‘you’ve won a free trip to Hawaii!’

Go to Hell, telemarketer. Or better yet, come to Gotham. It’s the next best thing.

He hauls himself back onto the mattress, chest jerking with hiccups that want to be real coughs, and closes his eyes. Ugh.

Tea. Alfred always poured gallons of the stuff down his throat when he was sick and y’know, it helped. Granted, getting to his kitchen is going to be **fun** , but he can lean on the couch halfway there if he needs to.

On three. One…two… **three**.

The ground is so very far away…and so very wobbly. He feels like Steve Martin in _Three Amigos!_ -gonna make it, gonna make it, gonna make it…

Not gonna make it. He slumps against the back of the couch, eyes squeezed shut against the dizziness, and tries to breathe deeply. That goes…poorly-a glob of mucus goes down his throat and gets stuck on the back of his tongue, makes him cough and gag.

Blegh.

He tries to spit it out, can’t, and ends up fishing it out with a finger. Why is this his life…

Oh well. Tea. He’s getting tea if it kills him.

He straightens back up and wobbles to the kitchen, pulls the kettle out of the cabinet. It’s battered and has seen better days (he may or may not have hit a would-be robber in the head with it…bad luck on the guy’s part, really), but he tried making tea in the microwave once and felt the disappointment of Alfred’s ancestors beaming down on him, so he’s stuck with it. It’s fine. The dent gives it character.

He slumps against the counter to wait, eyes closing against the unreasonable brightness, and wonders what he’d do if this really was the zombie plague. The responsible thing would be to shoot himself in the head, but his inner Asshole says to take as many down with him as possible. Choices, choices.

Once his tea is done, he goes back towards his bed, pauses, and decides he wants cartoons instead. He grabs his phone on the way by-the last thing he wants is to be startled by it screaming at him again-and collapses on his couch with his fluffy blanket and his mug.

Twenty minutes later, his tea is gone and he’s passed out cold.

* * *

Jason’s not sure what wakes him, only that his eyes are now open and that Dick Dastardly is being covered in what should be a fatal amount of chocolate. A light is coming from his phone.

**Incoming picture message.**

Huh?

What the hell…last time he got a picture message, it was because Dick somehow got his number and sent him a meme. This had better not be another one…he doesn’t want to change his number again…

He doesn’t recognize this number, but that means absolutely nothing. Maybe it’s a picture of his supposed Hawaiian vacation.

Okay…god, hopefully this isn’t a misdial with somebody’s…personal pictures. He’s gotten one of those before and had no idea what to do.

It’s definitely for him, and it probably says something that his first thought is, **that’d be a great Halloween prop.** His second thought is, **oh, crap.**

The picture is of a headless corpse. The corpse is sitting in an armchair, cradling its decapitated head in its lap.

The corpse is Jackson Wilde’s.

Well. This is…awkward.

He grabs a bit of skin between his nails to make sure this isn’t some weird fever dream. It hurts and leaves two little crescents, so he’s guessing it isn’t.

Nobody calls, and no more pictures come through, and all he can think is, **I have to change my fuckin’ number again.**

He breaks the phone and staggers up, coughing thickly at the sudden movement. He needs to get to Wilde’s apartment, hopefully before the cops realize that anything’s wrong.

Hopefully Mask’s boys aren’t still there. He’d hate to make a bigger mess.

* * *

He stops for a pack of DayQuil on the way over, and by the time he reaches Wilde’s apartment, it’s kicked in nicely. He’s a little unsteady still, but at least if there’s people there, he’s not going to be shot because he couldn’t stop coughing and defend himself.

It’s the little things.

Turns out that the place is empty. The police haven’t shown up and there’s no terrified neighbors milling around the entrance or anything, so the plan was probably ‘kill, take picture, wait until the smell draws someone’s attention’.

Fair enough.

He lets himself in through the window and promptly regrets the DayQuil. At least before his stuffy nose would have offered him some semblance of a barrier. Now? That gaggingly-sweet smell of blood is hitting him full force. It’s nothing something you get used to, you know. He thinks it’s a survival thing-don’t stick around, the blood could be yours.

Okay. First things first-corpse.

It’s here, all right, still propped in the chair. The eyes, half-glued shut with drying blood, gaze at him with the dull intensity of a taxidermy animal. Neat.

There’s a trail of blood leading to the door, so Jason’s best guess is that Wilde let them in. Either he thought it was the pizza guy or he thought he was safe. Either way…poor choice.

Judging by the bloody lump under the hair, they hit him first and used a…oh, gross…a hacksaw to do the removal. Animals. There’s a bathtub **right there** , come on…whatever. No sign of the saw, but-

There’s a meow from behind him. Oh. Well. Uh. At least the cat’s okay. He’d figured it ran out (or died), but it looks unharmed.

“Hey, buddy. You didn’t happen to see anything good, didya?” The cat’s ears go back and its eyes widen. A quick check around says it’s probably just spooked by the blood. Or him. Hopefully the blood. “Yeah, I guess not. Uh, sorry about your…person.”

He’ll make an anonymous call to the cops on his way out, maybe tell a neighbor so the cat doesn’t starve. Although maybe it’ll just snack on Wilde…

There’s nothing here to trace. He didn’t really think there would be, but it was worth a shot. Doesn’t matter, he guesses. He rolls his shoulders, earning a couple of nasty knocks and a sudden relief of pressure for his trouble, and knocks on a neighbor’s door with a cheery (and slightly congested), “There’s been a murder!” before heading towards a payphone down the street.

He wouldn’t wanna be the landlord today. That place is gonna need a complete remodel.


	47. Jurassic Park Sucks in Real Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you watch 'Jurassic Park' when you have a fever. You get random inspirations. Croc’s a bit of a combo of his Arkham-verse appearance and WB’s The Batman appearance. He’s kinda like a dinosaur, right? I mean, he’s big and eats people, so…
> 
> You should all hope I suffer Family Emergencies more often. I clean, I replace my blood with tea, and I get Itchy Posting Finger.

The lights are out. They flicker occasionally as the power struggles through bitten, broken wires, but they’re not comin’ back on for good any time soon. The front window is shattered, there’s blood everywhere and a few limbs scattered around (limbs…she’ll process that later) and the furniture is…it’s in splinters. At best.

Cobblepot’s gonna be so pissed…he just fixed that front window last week (Man-Bat got a hearty helping of mace to the eyes and…crashed).

Dove has no idea if Croc’s here on purpose or if he’s drugged out of his mind. All she knows is that he busted out of Arkham and came here, trashed the place, and, uh…

He’s eating, now. She does not wanna know the details. She can hear crunching and that’s enough. Besides, she has bigger problems.

Problem one: her phone is plugged in in the other room. She hadn’t thought to rip it from its charger when shit started going down and now she’s hiding behind the massive, circular bar with no phone, a shit-ton of broken bottles (like those are gonna help), and no idea which-if any-of her coworkers are still alive.

And today started out so well…

Problem two is that Robin-idiot kid that he is-tried taking on Croc on his own. _Tried_ being the operative word here-he got him with a tranquilizer dart, but Croc first clawed it out and then swatted him into the liquor cabinet.

That sounds a lot nicer than it actually is. Robin has no business being within five feet of Croc, in her ever so humble opinion, and he’s not fine. Croc’s a big boy, gettin’ bigger every year, and his claws have turned the kid into a bloody mess. And, well…look. It’s been twenty minutes and if Batman doesn’t show up soon, he’s only gonna get here in time to pick up a dead sidekick.

She’s tryin’, and sorta succeedin’, in stopping the bleeding, but if Croc decides to come over here they’re both screwed. There’s nowhere to run and even if there were, Robin can barely lift his head.

He’s shaking now, hands balled into fists and teeth clenched in an effort to keep quiet. Dove presses his cape tighter against his stomach and he winces, arms twitching like he wants to push her off.

“Hurts-” He cuts himself off with a low moan. “Please…”

“Shh. Dyin’ hurts more, I promise.”

He swallows and presses his head against the floor. Somewhere in the dark, broken room, there’s more crunching. Robin cringes and Dove just hopes that Croc’s found…steaks. Or something.

What? She’s not gonna sleep so well as it is, a little self-delusion isn’t gonna hurt.

“M’not gonna die.” he gasps out, barely audible over the crunching and snorting. “S-s’just a scratch.”

“I told you to get out before you got yourself killed.”

“Imperiled civilians…n-n-needed me.”

Yeah, she’ll…kinda give him that. Croc had had a woman cornered when Robin swung boots-first into the side of his head, distracting him enough for her to run. But still. He should’ve taken the save and left.

“Still,” she snaps (‘n she’s not angry with him, not really, but he’s gonna bleed out here if someone doesn’t come and he’s just a _kid_ ), “you should’ve gotten out after that.”

“S-sorry.” he breathes, hands jerking like dying bugs against the sticky, glass-covered floor, and she cups his face for a sec in apology for the tone.

“Shh.”

Where. The hell. Is Batman. Or the cops. Or, really, anybody with enough firepower to either take Croc down or keep him busy enough for her to call the boss and ask him where the bazooka is.

Robin swallows a whimper of pain and Dove tries to ignore the feeling of hot blood creeping through his cape. It’s slowing, a little, but unless somebody shows up…

Somebody’s probably called the cops. Multiple somebodies, maybe. But the cops can barely deal with Croc on a good night, and if they’re stretched thin…

There’s gotta be a way to contact the Bat. If he’s on his way, he needs to _hurry_.

“I-I got. Haaaalf a dose or s-s-so…in ‘im.”

“Robin-”

“Trank.” He gulps, breath coming hard through clenched teeth. “M-might slow ‘im down, make ‘im clumsy.”

“Shh.”

His arms jerk again.

“T-there’s a back door, right?”

“Yeah, Batman knows, kid, just-”

He shakes his head.

“Y-y-you gotta go, ‘f y’re f-f-f-”

This selfless little shit. If he gets himself killed, it’ll be his own damn fault.

“Robin, you shut your damn mouth.” she hisses, maybe a little more violently than necessary. He falls silent, though, looking at her with confused eyes and she feels a little bit guilty but _still_.

Croc snorts and there’s the sound of claws scraping against the wood floors. Dove’s just about to quietly panic when the scraping stops and there’s the unmistakable sound of a limb being torn from its socket.

Neat.

Robin succeeds in lifting his arm and…well, she guesses it’s a shove. Or meant to be. His fingers hit her wrist with some semblance of urgency. She ignores that and wonders…with the trank and whatever (if any) drugs that Croc might have in his system…

“Okay, kid, _please_ don’t die, your boss will kill me.”

“B’m’n doessss…doesn’ kill.”

No, but he deals out horrific, game-breaking injuries that make death seem kinder. So.

“Just don’t die. Do this one nice thing for me, okay, sweetheart?”

“Mm-” He stiffens, a whine slipping out from a tight throat. “I gotta. Gotta tracker. He’ll be ‘ere.”

Yeah, if it didn’t get shredded with the rest of him.

She lifts his hands and presses them against his cape, stands up a bit and looks over the counter. Croc’s lit by the street lights outside, a massive, hulking shadow. He’s not looking over here and maybe…if she’s very, very careful…

Look. Her phone is not far. It’s literally one room over. That girl in _Jurassic Park_ made a run for it, right? She got there without being eaten.

It might get them both out of this alive, anyway.

She drops back down and tugs her heels off. They make too much noise.

“What’re you doin’?” He tries to pull his head up and can’t quite make it. “You gonna try’n-”

“Shh, shh.” She takes her jewelry off-it could jingle-and picks up a shard of glass. Maybe she can take out an eye. “Okay, Robin.” she breathes. “You stay here and don’t die on me, I’m gonna go get my phone.”

“But-”

“Shh.” No reptilian shadow falls over them. Good. “Five minutes, kiddo.” _You’re not gonna last much longer if someone doesn’t get here soon._ “Just be quiet, I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t look convinced that this is a good plan. It’s a great plan. It’s also the only plan, short of ‘go down in a suicidal attack’ and she’s not into that at all.

“’ll ‘eat ya.”

“I’ll be fine, kid, don’t worry. Just stay here and don’t die, okay?”

He nods and closes his eyes with a whimpered, “M’not gonna die.” She eyes the redness on his cape, keeps her mouth shut and brushes his bangs off his face. “Y’gotta j-jus’ go, Batman’ll come.”

Yeah, eventually. They don’t have time to wait for his brooding ass to notice his kid’s missing. But if it’ll keep him calm, yup, Batman is literally five minutes away. Hell, he’s in the vents! Yup, in the vents. Right now. At this very second.

She adds her sweater to his cape, which is nowhere near as absorbent as it was earlier, checks to make sure Croc is still by the window, and inches out from behind the bar.

It’s silly, really. The bar isn’t gonna offer any sort of protection. But being out here, exposed like this, it’s…it’s bad. Feels like every little movement makes her joints creak and he’ll hear her and oh god-

Okay. The door leading to her phone is five feet away. There’s not that much broken glass between her and it.

She’s not stupid enough to run. That’ll make noise, that’ll attract his attention. Either he doesn’t know she’s here or he doesn’t care about her right now, and she’d like to keep it that way.

It’s a little awkward trying to dodge the glass, and yeah, she probably looks like a cartoon spy, but she makes it to the door without incident. It’s partly open and she inches into the room.

Somehow, she does not feel safer. Now she can’t see him and she can barely hear him. Her phone, though, is right where it was, screen proclaiming ‘CHARGED: to conserve energy, disconnect from power source’.

Good. She turns it to silent-if she gets killed by an ill-timed text, she’s gonna be so pissed-and dials Gordon. Gordon can get in touch with Batman.

“Hello?”

“Jim.” She can’t speak any louder, he’ll have to pay attention. “Listen to me, you need to get in touch with the Bat.”

“Huh? Dove? That you?”

No, fucker, this is a crank call.

“Croc’s at the Iceberg, it’s a mess, and Robin’s here, he’s gonna bleed out if someone doesn’t come.”

“Shit…okay. Is there any way you can lock yourself in the basement or something?”

“Uh-uh, Robin’s down, I can’t move him. Just. Get Batman, or send a SWAT team, or whatever the fuck will take Croc down.”

“Okay. Just be calm, okay? Everything’ll be fine.”

“You’re a shit liar.”

She hangs up, pockets the phone-maybe she can use it as a weapon-and peers through the crack in the door.

Croc’s moved, but only, like, a few feet. His tail’s knocked a table over-yeah, Cobblepot is not going to be a happy man-but his back’s to the bar. She can get back over there if she’s careful.

Okay. Is there anything in here…no. There’s a broom, a pack of gummy bears, and a spare pair of sneakers.

_Here we go…_

It’s easier to get back to the bar because Croc is in her line of sight at all times and she’s a little more willing to move quickly. Robin’s still gasping a little, but his hands have slipped down to his sides. Shit.

“Robin.” she breathes, pressing against her now slightly-sticky sweater. “C’mon, kid, stay with me.”

His eyes flutter open and please, please let him be lucid…

“M-Miss Marquis.”

Oh, good.

“Yeah. Gordon’s sending…help.”

“You came back.”

“Shh. Just stay with me, kiddo, it’s gonna be fine.”

“Y-yeah. S’…s’just a scratch.”

Oh, yeah. A deep, went-through-armor scratch.

He’s not shaking anymore and his eyes are closed, but when she taps his cheek (don’t be dead, kid, c’mon, you’re better than that) he nods, sort of, and pulls in a raspy breath.

“M’ere.”

That’s all she can ask for.

She’s starting to think that maybe this will be fine-are those sirens in the distance?-when there’s the sound of something being knocked over and Croc snarls, **“I smell you!”**

Well, fuck.

Robin tries to shove at her hands.

“Go.”

Idiot…

“Shh.”

“ll be okay, **go.** ”

She’s just going to ignore that. It’s the rambling of a hurt boy, that’s all. Blood loss.

He stops shoving (well, twitching) and goes limp, hand falling flat and heavy amongst broken glass. There might be something helpful in his belt, but she has no fucking clue and Batman has to _theme_ everything-his damn throwing knives are bat-shaped! If Robin’s got any more tranks, they’re probably bird-shaped or something stupid and unrecognizable.

Okay. This place is already gonna need renovations. She’s got a lighter back here, and so. Much. Booze.

She’s seen Zsasz do this once. How hard can it be, right?

The ground shakes, because her life is a horror movie, and she swipes for the nearest bottle of vodka and one of the overly-expensive napkins. Okay, okay, soak napkin, shove it in-

**“Tick-tock, feed the croc!”**

Hopefully this’ll do more than piss him off-

The counter splinters when one scaly hand slams against the wood.

**“I found you!”**

She lights the napkin and hurls the bottle. It hits him in the face and there’s **fire** , fire and roaring and flailing. He reels back, clawing at his muzzle, and a second later Cobblepot’s one intact front window is shattered as the Batman swings through it.

(He aimed for it, didn’t he. DIDN’T HE. FOR THE DRAMA.)

“Wha…?”

“Batman’s here.”

Robin grins, weak and ghoulish.

“Told ya…told ya ‘e’d come.”

“Try not to talk.”

He coughs instead, fingers clenching as he struggles to get a breath in. Croc roars and his tail smacks against the very battered bar, knocking a few glasses down. When Dove risks looking over there, Batman’s hanging off his back, the chain from a downed lamp wrapped firmly around his neck. Croc’s trying to get a claw between the chain and himself but so far, he’s not successful. The fire’s out, but his face is blistered and raw.

Good.

**THUD.**

“M-Miss Marquis?”

“Shh.”

She looks up again, dreading what she’ll find (she’s out of ideas, they’re screwed if…).

Croc is.

Croc’s down, splayed over the remains of a booth. Batman is nowh- **JESUS FUCKING-**

Never mind, he’s behind the bar.

“Robin.”

“B…knew you’d come.”

“Hn.” He takes a roll of bandages from his belt. “Hold still.”

“S-s-see?” He looks past the human gargoyle towards her. “Told ya.”

“You did, kid. Now don’t talk, okay?”

“Jus’ sayin’.” His head falls to the side and his voice is barely a whisper when he adds, “Told ya so.”

The sirens move closer and Batman hauls Robin into his arms.

“They’ll be here in two minutes.”

“If I get eaten, the boss will know who to blame.” She glances at Croc, who’s out like a light. “Go.”

She blinks and he’s gone. She eyes the puddle of blood on the floor, lips thin, and thinks, _hope the kid’s okay._

* * *

It’s a month or so later that she’s nearly knocked over by a stoplight with legs.

“Jesus-! Hi, kiddo.” She pats the mop of curls that appear to be closer to her chin than she remembers. “Feeling better?”

“T’anks for makin’ sure I didn’ need an extra blood bag.”

“No thanks for giving me grey hairs. Tell me you at least got glared at.”

“I got a lecture.” he grumbles, and she laughs, squeezes his shoulders and ruffles his hair.

“Which you deserved for staining the boss’s expensive-ass flooring.”

“Yeah…sorry.”

“You be _careful_. You’re not invincible.”

“Eh, ‘ve had worse.”

“Don’t tell me. _Don’t_ tell me.” Wait a minute. “Where’s the Living Gargoyle?” Robin stills and no, no, no, _NO._ “Tell me he knows where you are.”

“He knows where I am?” Fuuuuuuuuuuck. “My tracker works! He could find out in like, two seconds!”

She wants a neon sign above her head informing any incoming Bats that _THIS ISN’T MY FAULT, PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE ME HANGING OFF A GARGOYLE._

“Robin.” He ignores her. “You are going to get me _maimed_ , kid-”

“He only maims if it’s really bad!”

Heh, great, good to know.

“You’d better go find him, kiddo.” She peels him off. “And be safe. Trust me, the ‘imperiled civilians’ are probably assholes anyway.”

He shakes his head, grins like he didn’t get his stupid self nearly disemboweled playing superhero.

“I gotta save the assholes, too.”

“Not by kicking Killer Croc in the head.”

“It worked, though!”

The one great thing about this mess? Batman has to deal with him _all the time_. He’s probably got bald patches from the frustration.

“Go find Batman before he freaks.”

“’Kay. Thanks, Miss Marquis!”

Idiot kid…he’s gonna get himself killed one of these days.

THE END


	49. Masks, Pt. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time I thought this would be like, five chapters. I was naive then, bright-eyed and full of hope.
> 
> ‘Masks’ has (part of) its ‘soundtrack’ over on 8tracks-chapters one through nine, link to my profile there is on my profile here. I’ll make another one when I amass enough chapters to make another list. F’you want the track listing, just ask.

Jason wakes up to noon rush hour with drool on his pillow and snot drying under his nose.

This is one of those times that he’s **ridiculously** grateful to live alone. The thrill would be gone in two seconds flat after this.

He feels around for a Kleenex, comes up with crusty ones that promptly go to live in the trash can, and ends up stumbling out of bed for a warm washcloth and maybe food. He’s pretty sure he has oatmeal. Like…seventy-six-point-five percent sure. Around there.

He’s correct, and he waits for the water to boil while listening to a traffic altercation outside. What started as road rage has gotten personal. Apparently Party A slept with Party B’s wife. Awkward…but this kinda thing is why the Kardashians are not popular in Gotham. Why watch TV and waste electricity when you can open the window and catch live programming?

He takes his oatmeal closer to the window to try and see if anything’s going down. Mostly gesturing. Somebody’s got a phone out. Looks like they’re filming.

Speaking of filming…did Wilde make the news?

Google says no. He’s not really surprised. Gang squabbles usually don’t, not here. Not unless it’s **really** ugly, like that time Cobblepot stuffed an umbrella down a guy’s throat and it…opened…by accident.

Fortunately, there’s no news about any sort of dinosaur-related mayhem, either, which means Sionis either has plans or Jason…damaged it. Somehow. Maybe the smoke pellet did something to its sensors and it needs repairs. He hopes so. Still stings that that went so badly.

The hell does the guy want with a robotic dinosaur, anyway? The dress-ups, he gets. They want flashy, they want big, they want themed. But Black Mask…accident with his face aside, he’s not like them. Where’d he even get that thing? Museum rummage sale?

He coughs, sniffs pathetically, and throws his bowl in the sink. Somewhere in this town is a bookkeeper. He wants to talk to them.

But not before a long, hot shower.

* * *

His helmet can do many things. It can filter the air (no smoke inhalation for him!), it can see through walls, it adds an extra layer of intimidation (nobody likes talking to a faceless thing)…

But it doesn’t…really…

“Red, are you sick?”

Yeah.

“No.” he growls, and **that** was a poor life choice. Ow. Blaze-one of his less crappy informants, real name Norbert Heinz-makes a face.

“Uh, no offense man, but you sound like shit.”

“Did I ask.”

“I don’t wanna get sick, is all.”

Seriously. The guy routinely meets with questionable people for drugs, but he’s scared of a cold? Whatever. Jason’ll just have to remember this for later. Things go wrong, he can come and sneeze on him. As punishment.

“I’m not sick.” Blaze makes a face and rummages in his pocket for hand sanitizer. Well, fuck you, too, Rainbow Dash. “You hear about the decapitation a few blocks over?”

“Yeah.”

“Where from.”

“Marco. He was hangin’ around.”

On one hand, great. On the other hand, shit-witnesses don’t live long in this town.

“Where is he now?”

Blaze shrugs.

“Fuck if I know. Probably the Goat*.”

Great. The Goat is riddled with rodents and prone to murders, but it’s also the only twenty-four-hour bar in the area. He hates it, though. If desperation has a smell, that’s what the place smells like.

**Squack-squack.**

He is not going to tear the bottle of hand sanitizer from Blaze’s shaky little fingers. Even if it might make him feel better.

**Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to the Goat we go…fuck this shit why is this my life…I can’t rhyme.**

* * *

He makes a detour to a soup cart that’s been down here since Jesus was in the third grade. It’s depressing-most of its business has always come from the kids, and he has vivid memories of a…client…he’d dubbed Mister Sorry telling him to ‘go buy yourself some ice cream’. Sick fuck. He never bought the ice cream. He always bought some kind of hot and sour soup that burned (cleansed) his mouth ‘n throat.

That’s what he gets now, in a to-go cup (same crappy Styrofoam it’s always been). There’s nobody else there and he’s not sure if he’s grateful or not.

It’s exactly the same as it always was-liquid fire-but by the time it’s gone he can’t feel his tongue and his sinuses are the clearest they’ve been in…fuck, probably since the last time he got a cup of Satan’s Broth.

Well. Time to get moving. He can feel the headache starting already.

The Goat is a sleepy, quiet building during the day. At night, however, it’s a whole other story. The little hole in the wall spits strobes and heavy distorted guitars, and it’s really telling that he steps inside and nobody notices.

It’s a swarm of bodies in here, way more than the safety code would allow, he’s sure. The floor’s sticky beneath his boots (Booze? Bodily fluids? Some questions are better left unanswered.), and it takes him a minute to get his bearings and see if Marco’s here.

He is. Fucker’s on the other side of the building, bottle in hand and eyes fixed on the local band. Or the wall. He can’t tell.

He kinda wishes for the general hush and awe that usually comes with his presence. Would make getting through the throng a lot easier…oh, well. Standing here hoping nobody yanks him into what may or may not be an active orgy in the middle isn’t getting anything done.

He takes a deep breath and wades into things.

The guitar has given way to a soft, seductive bass and a smooth, serpentine drumroll. Marco takes a swig from his bottle and promptly spits it out when Jason appears in front of him. Well, there’s one point to the stickiness of the floor being booze.

“What do you want, man, I ain’t done nothin’-”

“Relax. Word on the street is that you saw a murder.”

“Who fuckin’ told-”

He holds a finger to where his mouth would be on the helmet. Marco blanches but shuts up.

“Time to go.”

“I didn’t-”

Shouting to be heard is doing nothing for his throat and his head’s starting to pound. His patience is gone.

He grasps the guy’s collar, hauls him to his feet, and drags him over to the bartender.

“What his tab?”

“One-fifty.”

He gives the guy two even and drags Marco, who’s making some unsettling heaving noises, out the door and into the relatively quiet alley. He lets go just in time-the fucker leans over and vomits beer-scented bile onto the bricks behind a dumpster, the splash stopping just shy of Jason’s boots.

Ugh.

“Why’d you make me move so much, Red.”

“You’re fine. Murder. You saw something, didn’t you? Few blocks over?”

“I fucking hate you.” Marco groans, and that’s **it**. He’s tired, he’s sick, and he’s **done**.

He reaches over, shoves Marco against the dumpster, and flicks a switchblade out of his sleeve.

“You’re gonna tell me what I wanna know, and you’re gonna be quick about it, or you’ll be known as Mute Marco for the rest of your natural life. Got it?” Frantic nodding. “Good. So spill.”

“There was four guys, okay? Suits. They went in and they came back with a couple’a duffle bags, s’all I know.”

“No, it’s not.” He reaches up to hold Marco’s jaw open and the guy jerks away, banging his head on the dumpster lid.

“Okay, okay! One of ‘em was on the phone when they came down, said somethin’ ‘bout bein’ owed two grand! I didn’t hear everything, you know it’s loud-”

It’s Gotham, the whole city is loud.

All the same, he believes that there’s not much more to tell. He folds the knife up, palms it, and loosens his grip on Marco’s shirt a teeny tiny bit.

“The guy on the phone. What’s he look like?”

“I don’t know! Average. Blond, tall, built like you.” Helpful. “Had a crumpled ear, though.”

S’that so.

“Good for you, Marco, you get to drink another day.” He steps back and Marco crumples to the dirty bricks, spits out a stream of yellow. “You remember anything else, you know how to reach me.”

Marco’s too busy spitting out yellow to answer and Jason takes the opportunity to vanish on him. What can he say, he’s theatrical.

Okay. Blond tank with a crumpled ear. Owed two grand…sounds like he might be outside help, or at least a contractor rather than one of Sionis’ regular goons.

In other words, time to get his Google-fu on.

 

 

 

*Gotham means ‘goat home’. Apart from the occasional serial killer, I’m gonna presume they have some goat-themed things as a result. Roll with it. ROLL WITH IT, GOTHAM.


	50. Toppling Todd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord, protect this dork from himself. Don’t believe me? Observe the single safety pin on his jacket, the one that needs to get with the buttons on Sherlock’s purple shirt and compare notes. Also observe the…I’m not actually sure if that’s a fucking band-aid or a piece of tape on his shirt, but that is not the intended purpose. Alfred raised you better than this, Jason.

There are two types of wet clothes. Type A is the the flattering kind-shirts that cling and get a little bit see-through and yeah, they’re a little uncomfortable, but at least you look good. Type B is what Jason is contending with now: death traps.

Wet jacket, wet jeans (he’ll be trapped in these jeans for life, he knows it, oh god), and wet boots with stubbornly triple-knotted laces. What was he thinking?

(That tripping over his own shoelaces and falling off a roof was a terrible way to go, but shh.)

Okay. Jacket first. He’s got this.

It takes a good ten minutes (he’s blaming Joker, his shoulders are **killing** him tonight and don’t want to move in certain directions), but he manages to pry it off. Okay. There, see, a third done already!

The boots, though…his fingers are stiff and cold and he just cut his damn nails last night. **He has no picking power.** Dammit!

Okay. Okay. If he can just loosen the knots a little tiny bit, maybe he can pull ‘em off and deal with ‘em in the morning. Well. This afternoon. **Later.**

He massages a knot between his finger and thumb until it starts to give. Still can’t quite undo it, but maybe…

Ha-HA! It’s comin’ loose on its own!

It takes another ten minutes, but he undoes the knots and yanks his boots off. Ah. Freedom. Now for the part he really, really isn’t looking forward to.

Jeans.

Thank all that is holy in any and every religion that the Riddler hasn’t realized the true potential of wet denim. Or, really, any of them-you wanna make sure your hostage can’t escape? Buddy, has Jason got the thing for you.

Things go downhill very quickly. One minute he’s trying to dislodge his leg from its black prison, the next…well…

The floor tilts. It’s an earthquake or…or something. Whatever it is, it sends him falling backwards, hands grasping for something to save himself. They end up clinging to the shower curtain and he has just enough time to think, **THIS IS HOW I DIE** before said curtain tears free from the rings and he topples into the shower itself.

**BANGTHUDCLATTER!**

Soap bottles, his razor and his scrubbie-on-a-stick leap from their perches and crash onto the ceramic floor beside him. Then, to add insult to injury, his regular scrubbie decides to float down and boop him on the head.

Ow.

There’s a chorus of neighborly banging from all sides and he cringes, remembers that it’s four AM and that his neighbors are normal people who are asleep at this hour. They’re going to form a mob, aren’t they? With mops and flaming brooms and rakes!

He’s doomed.

He drops his head against the wall and figures he’ll just wait here for them, make it easy to wash the blood away. He’s considerate like that.

THE END


	51. Masks, Pt. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the holidays coming up, updates may or may not get weird. My family is 'that' family, the one whose house can be seen down the block because of all the lights. S’pretty dope, y’all. But anyway, putting up all those lights takes work (you ever wrap a saguaro? Hahaha fuck me gently with a crowbar), so we’ll see what happens. I can probably keep to a semi-consistent schedule, because sleep is for the weak, but still.

Google-fu is, really, not an accurate term, but it sounds cool, so screw you.

Jason’s spent many, many after-school-hours watching Barbara Gordon do magical things with nothing but a laptop and a spotty internet connection. Between that and the Batcomputer (he stands by his initial assessment-Bruce, you can’t theme everything, it’s stupid), he’s not too bad at computers. Could he hack the Pentagon? Probably not. But he can get into databases he’s not allowed into.

Usually, this is his least favorite part of the job. It’s tedious and no matter how low he makes the backlight, it hurts his eyes after sitting here for long enough. But today, he’s tired and stuffy and content enough to curl up on his couch with the laptop and a cup of ginger tea*.

And three…two…one…

“I’m in.” he mutters, and that strikes him as vaguely funny and kinda dumb, but it’s too late to take it back. And it’s true.

He’s tempted to see if he’s in here, but he just knows it’ll be a bad picture anyway. Probably something blurry. Probably a still from his fall onto the car, the fuckers. He’s gonna have to do something cool to deal without that fallout…stroll casually out of a burning building, maybe. As one does.

Okay…hopefully this pans out…

Steam coils around his wrist when he picks up his mug and he spends a few too many seconds doing battle with the stupid swipey-pad. The mouse will always be superior. Shame his got bled on and died. He needs a new one…

Okay…no, no, probably not, Bob, is that you?...no, maybe…oooh, that’s not a flattering picture **at all** …

Wait. Wait, wait, who’s he.

The guy’s creepy even in black-and-white. Looks a bit like that one guy in _From Russia With Love_ -the torture assassin. Red Grant. (Everyone’s gotta be Red…whatever.) And…yeah.

Barely visible, what with the angle, is the man’s left ear. Bingo.

He rewards himself with a sip of tea and scrolls through the guy’s sheet. Yup. Professional hitman, arrested once but ‘got lost’ in a prison transfer, holy shit that’s a high body count…

There is no ‘Red’ anywhere in his name, and Jason’s a little bummed. He could have **worked** with that, dang it. Supposedly his name is Dimitri Abdulov. No material to be had from that. Humph.

Oh, well. Sionis likes heads, that much is clear. So it’s only polite to acknowledge this. Is his birthday coming up? Jason’s sure his birthday’s coming up, and here he is without a present.

Tsk.

* * *

**No no please no NO-!**

**Thud.**

Ow.

Wha…he was…but…

Oh.

He breathes, or tries to, and pulls his head away from the coffee table. Missed that sharp corner by inches. Brr.

He’s okay. He’s okay. Just. Just a nightmare, he’s okay.

He has no idea if his face hurts from being sick or from…from.

Doesn’t matter. Sun’s going down-well, what little sun’s visible to begin with-and he has some calls to make. But first, shower.

It hits him as he’s reaching for the knob marked ‘H’ that the last time he was sick was six months in. He remembers because he’d hoped that maybe Joker wouldn’t want to bother with him, would finally put him out of his misery.

He’d kidnapped a doctor from Upstairs, made sure Jason wouldn’t die, and then shot the man. Jason still remembers warm brains and bits of bone spattering against his face and neck.

He is not going to puke. He’s over that. (And if the helmet has the happy side effect of keeping other people’s blood off his face, well, it’s just that-a happy side effect.)

The shower stabs down with sharp pinpricks of heat and he ducks his head, lets it massage his scalp.

Ahh. Steam.

Okay. If Abdulov is any sort of professional, money talks. Which means…Jesus, that feels really good…means that a job offer should get his attention. That’s sort of how assassinations work.

Provided **he’s** not on the guy’s hit list, anyway. Every contract killer he’s ever met has been oddly resistant to being bought off. Professional pride or some such bullshit-there, right there, right there…yes.

Much as he doesn’t want to, he shuts off the water and stumbles into the steam-filled bathroom, de-steams the mirror because like hell is he falling victim to a clown (or anything else) opening the door without him knowing about it. That happens here, y’know. They had one guy-papers were callin’ ‘im the Jack-in-the-Box-that used to pop up behind people and stab ‘em. Tried it on an ex-marine and got shot three times in the head at point-blank range.

Wow, he looks like a zombie. He should leave the helmet at home, play with those rumors that he came back from the dead to avenge himself. What? It’s nice to have the door open, if he wants to roll with that full-time one day. Options are important.

He hacks a gob of ick into the sink and reaches for his Listerine. Blech. If he’s going to be selfish (and just this once, he **wants** to be selfish), he hopes crime is down tonight. Well. Ideally, crime would down every night, but that’s just wishful thinking, so one night, literally, one friggin’ night of minimal evil-doing, would be great. Just so he can come home early and **rest** rather than try not to bend over too far under threat of dizzy spells.

…

He just **knows** the fuckers are gonna go out of their way to be awful. That’s how his life works. Maybe he was born under a bad sign. Maybe he was a raging douchcanoe in a past life. Maybe the universe just has it in for him. He would be exactly zero percent shocked to learn he entered this world with the cord around his neck, to be honest.

Okay…what happened to that really soft shirt that’s been washed so many times you can barely see the totally-not-a-Batsymbol on it? Please don’t be in the hamper, please don’t-finally! Fortune smiles on him! Now watch it have a hole…nope.

He pulls it on, flips his phone open, and starts trying to get his pants on with as little effort as possible while scrolling through his contacts. Like Sherlock Holmes’ Baker Street Irregulars, once one person knows, they all know. Now, who’s got the biggest mouth…

Fuck it. The more the merrier.

He sends a group text and reaches for his boots. They’re heavy in his fingers and logically, he knows he should stay in. That’s not gonna happen-there’s more important things than his health going on, and it’s just a cold-but…yeah.

**You’ve had worse, now stop whining and get moving.**

By the time he’s loading up the last of his guns, his phone is chiming. Unknown number.

**I understand that we should meet.**

He really hopes the guy’s will is in order.

* * *

Because rule number one of shady dealings in Gotham is to meet in a warehouse, Jason gives Abdulov directions to one that **should** be Bat-free.

It’s cold inside and the chill promptly starts eating into his joints. The second he’s through here, he’s getting coffee. Or something warm, anyway. He’s not particularly picky. He does a sweep, finds nothing but spiderwebs and a couple’a rats, and settles into the rafters to wait.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Abdulov is definitely a professional-Jason can see it in the guy’s walk alone. If he’s going to be very honest with himself-and why not, no one ever has to know-he’s like…mostly certain the guy could take him down. Maybe not on a normal day, but right now? Yeah. If this isn’t handled just right, Bruce’ll actually have something to put under that overpriced tombstone with his name on it.

Provided he doesn’t end up as Croc food.

He’ll just have to be extra careful, that’s all.

Abdulov doesn’t seem to have any backup hanging around outside, and he’s not carrying any visible weapons, but Jason’s not stupid enough to think he’s unarmed. So he’s not carrying a rocket launcher, that doesn’t mean jack.

He moves so he’s between Abdulov and the doors and drops down.

“Dimitri Abdulov?”

Credit where credit’s due, the guy doesn’t so much as flinch. It’s a little disappointing, to be honest. He **likes** the flinches. They fuel him.

“Red Hood.”

In event of shit going sideways, that ear’s a weak point-Abdulov’s head is tilted **ever** so slightly. Good to know.

“Glad you could come chat.”

Abdulov snorts. Sounds like a bull. Reminds him that his sinuses hurt.

“What do you want.”

“You did a job for the Black Mask pretty recently. Good work.” Messy, really, but a little flattery’s never a poor choice. “I want to talk with you about him.”

“I never speak about past clients.”

Fuckin’ professional courtesy….c’mon…’tween the hitmen and the mob, nobody has more manners than the criminals. Even Cobblepot’ll offer ya a cigar before he feeds you to his cassowary. The average pedestrian? Heaven help you if you bump into them. They’ll curse out you, your mother, your grandmother and your dog. And maybe even try to knock you into the street.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The guy’s considering it, Jason can tell. Yes. Yes, consider. It’s not like he’ll have to pay up, after all.

He eases the bag he brought with him off his shoulder, lets it fall to the ground with a hearty **thump**. He can just **see** the consideration intensifying.

**C’mon, you know you wanna.**

“I never met him.” What? Oh, come on! “I only spoke with an intermediary…who was, of course, not my client.”

“Thought the guy you killed was the intermediary.”

“No. There was a…secretary, of sorts. I spoke with her.” Maybe Dove knows her? “We met in a lounge downtown and made the arrangements.” There’s a sniff that sounds way too delicate to come from this guy. “I am not used to making arrangements in abandoned warehouses, Mister Red.”

Ohh, he likes that one. Hopefully it’ll catch on.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have intermediaries.” He has what are technically informants and what he likes to refer to as minions. Sounds more ominous. “I do have a bright red target on my head, though, so warehouse it is.”

The expression he gets is highly unimpressed. Like hell is this guy a native. Natives understand the **rules**. Whatever. Doesn’t really matter.

“Hm.” Was that a suspicious **hm**? Please, please don’t let that have been a suspicious **hm**. “What do you want, Mister Red.”

“I think I’m good, actually.” He can work with what he’s been given. “Did this intermediary have a name? S’just, I wanna talk to the guy, but he won’t take my calls.”

“Li.” There’s a soft chuckle. It’s…really, really, creepy. “Kelly Li**. I doubt she’ll take your calls, either.”

“Thanks. Well, here you go. This is all yours.”

He takes a few steps towards the door and refuses to feel bad for whirling back around and emptying his gun into Abdulov just as he’s bending down for the duffle bag.

 

 

 

 

*As someone who suffers chronic pain (hypermobility, not Joker, **obviously** ), ginger tea is MAGIC. This shit can take down period cramps, so long as they’re not, like, the vomit-inducing kind.

**Ms. Li (Mr. Li in the comic) isn’t given a first name that I can recall, so I’ve given her the first name of her voice actress.

 

 


	52. Bringing it Down (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty Richardson belongs to me-find her in The Autumn Effect. Approach at your own peril-Kitty’s five feet of homicidal rage. Go ahead. Crack a short joke. She’ll break your knees to get you down to her level. Won’t be fun for you.
> 
> Gotham’s underworld, or at least the major players, have one advantage that Batman doesn’t-they know Jason’s not dead. Harley can’t keep her trap shut, you know they know. That, and in the prequel comics, Dr. Crane just immediately went, ‘oh, joy, another Bat’. There’s only so many it could be; factor in ‘this one’s really angry at Batman’, and, well…you do the math.
> 
> Title from the Starset song of that name.

Gotham’s cold.

Antoine knew it would be, because he looked at the weather forecasts, but still. It’s like, August. How is it cold? Why? What is **wrong** with this city? Maybe the ice-guy’s out and that’s why it’s cold…whatever. He doesn’t know, or care, anymore. He cares that it’s foggy, which makes visibility a real bitch and makes him jumpy.

Not for the first time, he wishes somebody else had to come with the boss to meet their client. This sucks.

Google says Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow, hasn’t been seen since an ‘incident’ at the now-defunct Arkham Asylum, and is most likely dead. The boss says-and Antoine’s quoting here-‘those fuckers don’t die’. How he knows this, Antoine has no clue, but he has yet to be wrong, so.

Scarecrow’s not at the docks, which makes sense. Antoine’s seen his face (mask? He’s praying it’s a mask, what the **hell** ), that’s bound to attract attention, Gotham or not. How they’re supposed to find him, though, is a mystery.

They’ve been waiting for twenty minutes now and Antoine’s starting to get jumpy. The Knight, unfairly, seems unfazed. Why the hell are they even here?

He turns to watch a shadow (probably a bird, could be Batman) cross the skyline. When he turns back, people have materialized out of the fog. Big guys, your typical hired muscle if he had to guess, and a woman-little thing, all in black and shiny goggles. The gas mask hanging around her neck says **Scarecrow** , and Antoine wants to leave. Right now. Something’s off, and it could just be Gotham, but-if you’ll pardon the expression-his Spidey-senses are tingling.

The woman tilts her head, and then her upper body, back to look at them and red lips curve into a frown. She steps back and beckons one of her goons over. The guy’s moving a little slow, and when he gets closer Antoine sees two little marks above his eyes. What-

**BLAM!**

The goon’s head splinters, brains and bone hitting the damp wood at their feet, and the body slumps. The woman kicks the limbs until it’s flat and steps onto its back, grinning broadly.

“That’s better. Girl could hurt herself lookin’ up at you.” Antoine eyes the gun in her hand with no small amount of trepidation and wonders, again, **why are they here?** “The Arkham Knight, I presume?”

The Knight tilts his head a few centimeters past necessary and rumbles, “Richardson.”

“Look at you!” She reaches up and flicks an ear. Antoine’s waiting for her to lose a hand, but the Knight doesn’t move. “You have done your schoolwork, haven’t you? Y’know, every other copybat I’ve seen has ended up dead or…unwell…but who knows, maybe you’ll be the lucky one.”

“I don’t need luck. Where’s Crane.”

“Shh.” She twitches a finger. “Not so loud, sweetie, you’ll attract attention.” She steps off the corpse (corpse…Jesus) and circles them, goggles gleaming in the streetlights. “No cape? You’re no fun at all anymore-”

The Knight whips around and seizes the collar of her coat, lifts her off her feet. Both sides raise their guns, but their employers don’t seem to notice or care.

“Keep talking. Go on.”

Richardson just laughs, choked and nowhere near sane. The laughter devolves into a horrible choking noise, and when the grin returns, Antoine’s pretty sure he sees blood flecks on her teeth and lips. They make her look like a fucking vampire.

“Sweetie, I’m at the point where I’m less worried about dying and more worried about who to take with me.”

Antoine catches a glimpse of…something…inside her sleeve. He would like to get back on the boat and leave and never, ever come to Gotham again.

The Knight snorts.

“Done?”

She says nothing and he sets her down. Skirmish averted.

“Come along, you’ll be late.”

Antoine’s perfectly willing to nope the fuck out, but the Knight follows and he can’t, in good conscience, leave the guy alone with the crazy lady. Not here.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it. He should be more of an asshole…

Richardson leads them through dark alleys and quiet streets until they emerge in neon-lit Chinatown. Somehow, the lights do nothing to make her look less freaky. If anything, they make things worse-those goggles are dark pits above a too-wide grin.

“This way. Jonathan’s been looking forward to seeing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Not exactly. Antoine has no desire to meet the Scarecrow face to face.

“I’m sure it is. Run along boys, I can manage.”

“But the Doc said-”

Richardson stills, hand halfway to the doorknob, and turns to the lugs next to her.

“What did I just say?”

“Uh…”

“I said to run along boys, I can manage. I suggest you do so.”

They leave without another word and Richardson opens the door. Antoine’s hoping for bright lights and maybe the smell of hot chocolate or even pumpkin spice, but it’s no better inside. It’s dim. The lights are flickering. There’s cobwebs everywhere and the generic picture on the wall is creepy as all hell. Somehow. Maybe the kid looks too dead, he doesn’t know.

“Stay here and don’t touch.”

Antoine wants to hug himself lest he accidentally touch something. For safety. He settles for inching over to look at the picture. Maybe it’s less weird close up…nope, that appears to be a woman nursing a dead child.

“Sir?”

“You heard her. Don’t touch.”

Of all the times for the boss to decide to be a smartass…

There is what appears to be dried blood on the corner of the frame. Or dried…flesh, anyway. He’s not sure, exactly. It’s dry and flaky and brown and looks like…okay, it’s probably not, but it kinda looks like a chunk of eyeball.

He’s just gonna…go over there.

There’s a shriek from upstairs and it’s only a rigorous amount of training that ensures he doesn’t flinch. The Knight tips his head up.

“Poor bastard.”

Can they go? Surely this isn’t really necessary. Why are they even here? Can’t they Skype?

The Knight’s gone over to a door and y’know what, fine, he can deal with the horrible death that will probably come to him if he touches anything. Antoine’s staying right here, thank you very much. Hopefully Richardson broke her neck on the way upstairs and they don’t have to go see Crane.

“D’you like him?” JESUS FUCKING- “Work in progress. Batman won’t appreciate him, I’m sure, but he really is one of Jonathan’s best efforts.” What. What the hell.

Richardson walks over to the door the Knight’s looking at and beckons for Antoine to come see. He doesn’t want to come see.

He goes anyway. The door has a very thick glass window, letting them see into a well-lit room with…with a…

What the hell.

His first thought is that they’ve got the actual Robin in there, in which case SHIT Batman’ll be here any minute they’re **fucked** , but then…no, that’s not…can’t be. The uniform doesn’t match up with the pictures he’s seen.

What the hell?

“Watch this.” Richardson’s grinning again, all teeth. She raps sharply on the glass and the (kid, that’s a **kid** ) jerks his head up. “Robin.”*

“Richardson…” The Knight’s tense. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Antoine’s worked for the guy for a few years now. He knows the signs-the boss is upset, the kind of upset that leads to broken bones.

“You’ll like this.” That grin says no, they won’t like this, but she’s not looking at him and Antoine would like to keep it that way. “Crowbar.”

What the-

The kid hurls himself at the door, shrieking and clawing at the glass with enough force to snap off a nail. The Knight steps back, draws his sidearm, and fires. The bullet embeds itself in the glass, but the screaming and clawing doesn’t stop.

“Ah-ah…can’t have something happening to him. Robin, that’s enough. It’s all right, sweetie.”

And just like that, the screaming and scrambling stops and the kid returns to his chair, dead eyes fixed on the window.

Antoine wants to puke.

“As I said, he really is one of Jonathan’s best pieces. Goes to show you what patience can do…come along. You tire him out, I will personally ensure that you leave.”

Antoine wants to doubt it, but who knows how many other…pieces…are around, unconfined.

The Knight is silent and if Antoine didn’t know better, he’d say he’s rattled. Great, they’re gonna die. Good bye, cruel world…

Richardson leads them up three flights of stairs and into a small, sparse room. There’s a lab table on the far wall and next to that…

Antoine’s first thought (hope) is that that’s a mask. It’s gotta be, right? Right? Please. That’s not…faces don’t…

Richardson sinks onto a stool on the other side of the room. The…man…stares impassively at them.

“The Arkham Knight.” The features twist into what might be a smile. “Look at you.”

They know something, don’t they. That’s annoying.

The Knight remains still.

“Crane.”

Crane laughs, a breathy thing that sounds more like a death rattle, and cocks his head. Antoine takes in the syringes on his fingers and decides he doesn’t want to know what’s in them.

“Well, well, you do look the part, don’t you?” Maybe it’s not a mask…guy looks patched back together as it is. No. No, it’s a mask, Antoine is sticking to that because it’s the better option. “Quite the dedication, considering…no matter. You sought me out, why.”

What? When? _Why._

“Certain circles are saying you want to take down the Batman.”

WHAT.

NO.

If Antoine didn’t think he’d pay dearly for it, he’d drag the Knight out by one pointy ear and demand a psych eval. Yeah, he knows the drill, he knows what they’ve all been trained for, but…but…not this way. Not with this **thing**.

Scarecrow does the creepy death-laugh again and moves towards them, slowly and carefully. Somehow, that does nothing to make him less scary.

“That, **Knight** , would be a **massive** understatement.” He’s right up close now and holy shit that’s not a mask that’s not **possible**. Antoine kind of wants to hurl. Or at least vacate the premises. “I want to make him **suffer** for what he did to me.”

“And I want him dead.” Well, yeah, they all know that, but wanting and doing are two different things. “You’ve never been successful before.”

“What makes you think you will be?” Scarecrow sounds like he’s smiling. Antoine can’t tell. “You look like him, that means nothing.”

The Knight ignores that and says, “He’s just one man. If you can wear him down, you can kill him.”

“Is that so.” Scarecrow sounds incredibly disinterested. Okay, time to go, services rejected, gee, what a shame. “And how do you propose we do that, hmm?”

No. No. Be disinterested. Be a prideful bastard and want to keep the Batman to yourself.

“I have an army.”

Antoine is half-expecting somebody to pipe up with **we have a Hulk** , but he’s not so lucky.

“Fascinating.” Please don’t come any closer. “Perhaps you are worth hearing out, after all.”

Great.

He meets Richardson’s goggles and she grins at him, all teeth.

This is going to go badly, he can just **tell**.

THE END

*The unfortunate sap they’ve got in there appears in _Encounters_ -Crane’s snapped him via drugs, therapy, and a little surgery courtesy of Kitty, and they’ve done a bit of work to make him look, at half a glance, like Jason. Threw Batman off a bit.


	53. Masks, Pt. 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written the finale (but not the bit leading there, though I know what I want). You guys are gonna wanna do very illegal things to me for it, and I don’t mean illegal as in ‘archaic laws still on the books in some states’ illegal. >-) I regret nothing.
> 
> Somewhere, Roman and his Goons are preparing an epic version of ‘Put That Robin Back Where It Came From, or So Help Me’ to send to Joker, who is entirely to blame for this.

Kelly Li’s not hard to track down. In fairness, she’s clearly not trying to hide. She goes to work at Sionis Industries every morning at eight-fifteen, has a forty-five-minute lunch break starting at eleven-oh-nine, and leaves for the day at six-thirty. No deviations.

Jason would rather hurl himself off of Wayne Tower and not catch himself than suffer that level of routine. He’s not even exaggerating.

Her job is, on paper, legal. She keeps the main cogs of Sionis Industries turning-signs for shipments, hires people, fires people, makes (aboveboard) appointments…really, if it weren’t for Abdulov, Jason **might** buy the whole ‘I have never done anything illegal in my life, ever’.

Or at least, he’d have a harder time proving it.

He’s not so stupid as to just stroll in, helmet or no, and try to talk to her. And in all honesty, he’s not too keen on attempted kidnapping, either. Not because of guilt or anything, s’just…clearly she’s important. No way he can just swoop down like Tarzan and snatch her off the sidewalk. No way will it be that easy.

It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d go out at night, but like most sane people, she stays in her apartment after getting home. The one time she did go somewhere, it was with some guy that came to pick her up, and it was back to the office.

Humph.

No family. No friends that he can find-well, work friends, but they’re useless to him-, no nothing. Work. Spin class on Saturdays and Sundays. And that is literally it. The only remotely interesting thing about her is that Penguin hates her because she stole his pen four years ago. Because of course that’d be Cobblepot’s hill to die on.

Funny as it is, he doubts he can somehow steer the Penguin towards kidnapping her to reclaim his stupid pen. Nor does he think he can use the pen to his advantage in any way.

Yeah, he could just drop down and ask for a nice chat, but she carries a taser. Sensible. Inconvenient for him, but sensible.

One week of surveillance plus one awkward conversation with Dove (‘so how hard would kidnapping you be, exactly?’ ‘kiddo, I’m sure that sounded better in your head, right?’ ‘…no.’) later, he…has an idea.

Sort of.

Bruce would call it risky, which makes it slightly more appealing. He’ll admit that. It’s not like it involves…no, no, it does, never mind.

He needs confusion and smoke. Both of those things can be achieved with a rocket launcher.

What? That is a perfectly acceptable solution to his problem.

Sionis Industries closes when Li leaves at six-thirty, no exceptions. Except for today. Today it’s closing early.

Jason is settled on a neighboring rooftop, assembling his toy. This is going to have to be as precise as he can get with it-he needs her to run for **this** door, and hopefully not be crushed by falling debris.

Well. Not **too** crushed. A shattered ankle isn’t so bad, as long as she can hobble out of the building.

It’s six. Li is on the fourteenth floor. She’s on the phone, and Jason would bet most of his ill-gotten funds that Sionis is on the other line. Good. He’s gotta find out sooner or later, after all.

He puts the finishing touch-a laser sight, because fuck you, that’s why-on, stands up, and prepares to blow this shit to Kingdom Come.

Like most people, Li’s a mover when she’s on the phone. She fiddles with something on the desk, then gets up to get a water from the cooler before wandering aimlessly. Eventually, the wandering leads her to the window.

Perfect.

It takes her a second to register the red dot, but then she looks up, slack-jawed. He waves. She runs.

But not fast enough.

**BOOM!**

Really, the rocket launcher was a great choice. It gets the job done, and now the building needs repairs. Maybe that’ll keep Sionis nice ‘n busy for a little while.

Employees stream onto the sidewalk, pointing and shouting. Li is not among them. Why is Li-there!

She’s still on her cell phone, visibly rattled and scanning the rooftops. It’s too late for that to help-he’s already moving, swinging down to pluck her from the curb. The phone shatters when it hits the ground and there’s a bit of screaming, but it doesn’t matter.

**Gotcha.**

“You animal! Let go of me!”

Well, since she asked so nice…

He drops her. They’re like, a foot from a roof, not even enough to bruise. She plops down like a sack’a bricks, though, one heel snapping on impact and purse bouncing a few feet away.

“What do you want.”

“Kelly Li, right?” he asks, taking a few steps closer. “Works for Sionis industries, goes in at eight-fifteen and leaves at six-thirty, every. Single. Day.”

He’s gotta give it to her. If she’s scared, it ain’t showin’-the only answer he gets is a curled lip and a, “Good for you, you can stalk.”

He likes her! He really does! Doesn’t change how this is gonna go, but he’ll think of her with fondness from time to time. Remember her on New Year’s, that sorta thing.

“There was your chance to deny it…oh, well. A little birdie told me you **know** things, huh?”

“Two plus two is four.” she deadpans, and he grins under the helmet.

“Good for you.” He cracks his neck-ow, that actually hurt-and takes a good, long look at her. Nine outta ten times, an awkward silence gets people to **sing**. Between the explosion and her sudden flight, her bun’s gone sideways and her glasses are barely clinging to her face. The latter seems to register with her and she shoves them up, straightens her spine, and glares at him.

“Mr. Sionis won’t be pleased to hear about this.”

“Aw, I live to drive up his blood pressure.” She doesn’t appear to have anything deadly on her person, but she seems the type to try and stab him with that broken heel. “But he’ll have to wait. I wanna talk to you…about a shipment that came in last week. Big thing from Cybertron Industries?”

That gets a reaction-her face pales and the glare weakens as her eyes widen.

“I-it was destroyed. No thanks to **you**.”

“I don’t think I buy that, Ms. Li.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Maybe your boss should’ve thought about that sooner.” He grabs her, drags her across the gritty rooftop towards the edge. “Y’see, if I were Batman, I’d bounce you up ‘n down like a yo-yo. Might dislocate a thing or two, but you’d be fine. But…I’m not Batman. I can still bounce you up ‘n down, but if my fingers slip…” Twenty stories down, there’s a convenient honk. Beautiful. “Accidents will happen, right?” She’s silent. He forces her head backwards and her glasses ever so slowly slide up, up, and off, falling into the sea of lights below. “Whoops.”

Her eyes look a lot smaller without the glasses, but even with the fear, they’re shrewd. That’s probably bad.

“Fine.” Yeah. Sure. “If my phone hadn’t broken-”

“Bullshit.” he says serenely. “But if you wanna play hard to get…that’s fine.” He hefts her up, gets a good grip on her wrists, and hauls her, thrashing and shrieking the entire time, over the edge. “I’d start talkin’. I dropped my coffee mug this mornin’, you know? Real shame. Shattered all **over** my kitchen floor, just because Butterfingers Me couldn’t keep a grip on the handle.”

“My purse!”

“Hm? Didn’t catch that over all the traffic down there.”

“There’s a-a flash drive! It’s in my purse, in the zipper pocket.”

Quick ‘n easy. Works every time.

He pulls her back onto the roof. Sure enough, hidden amongst lipstick and gum wrappers and a pouch labelled ‘Vampire Tea Bags’, is a small black flash drive. Nondescript. Could have anything on it. He’ll keep it. And he’ll let her go, because if it turns out to have her high school diary or something on it, they’ll have to talk again.

Provided Sionis doesn’t kill her…but that’s not really his problem.

“Good.” He pockets it. “Good luck getting down-”

**Whip-whip.**

**Oh, fuck me with a crowbar.**

And to think, tonight was going so well…

The Batman lands on the roof not ten feet away. Jason wishes he could take his helmet off. Bruce deserves to know how not-glad he is to see him.

“Fuck off, Bats.”

Bruce hates that nickname. Whether he would have ever liked it if the Gallery didn’t use it is a mystery, but he despises it. Jason is not sorry.

“What are you doing, Hood.”

Oh no, the big, bad, Batman’s come to read him the Riot Act. He’s quaking in his boots. Really.

“I was going to go home, play violent video games, drink blood from a skull…y’know, bad-guy stuff.” He grips Li’s arm and mentally counts the number of steps to the ledge. Ten if he goes for subtle. Five if he just runs.

Bruce radiates exasperation. Jason wishes he’d radiate it somewhere else. Like Hell.

“Let her go, Hood.”

“Seriously. For all you know, she’s running a child trafficking ring! But oh, wait…doesn’t matter to you, huh?” Nine…eight… “Go find a mugging to stop, Bats. Or go visit Arkham, make sure the psychopaths are all snug in their beds.”

Bruce tenses. Subtlety’s out the window-he’s got seconds at best.

Typical.

They both move-Bruce for a Batarang (and Jason doesn’t wanna know where he was gonna hit him) and Jason for the edge of the roof, arm thrusting out to hurl Li over the edge. Bruce changes form to follow.

God, he’s predictable.

Either he’ll catch her or he won’t, Jason doesn’t care. He takes his window, though, grappling to another rooftop, dropping into the alley, and making his way towards where he parked his bike.


	54. Masks, Pt. 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to wonder, a bit. In the DLC, Jason says ‘It’s all personal. *Very* personal.’ And, y’know, kicks the guy out of a window and into traffic. Now, this *could* be just Jason getting emotionally involved/murder-y, because that’s how he rolls. But, because I’m actually a monster, I promptly dismissed that. So what could have triggered that, I asked myself? Stephanie Brown doesn’t appear to exist in this universe, which cuts out the possibility of ‘fuckin’ Bruce, losin’ Robins right and left, I’ll do the avenging then’. So. End result? Jason’s not happy, and I have fun things to play with again.

Fucking Bruce. Figures. Nowhere to be found when Jason needed him, but the second he’s not welcome? WHOOSH, there he is.

It’s things like that that make Jason want to punch him. Repeatedly. With brass knuckles. Or at least a desk chair. A spinny one with lotsa metal.

He’s shaking and he doesn’t want to be, but Bruce’s very existence does this to him. Especially on nights like this. Jason’d been begging for him, screaming his throat raw and bloody, and he never came. Li? Black Mask’s fucking go-girl, and here comes Batman to save her from danger.

It’s only because he doesn’t want it to shatter that he doesn’t hurl the flash drive against the wall.

Bruce can go straight to Hell. Sorry, useless bastard…

**Where were you?**

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He got on just fine before he met him, thank you very much,

**I don’t want this you sick sonofabitch can’t you see I’m just a kid I can’t**

and he gets on just fine now. He doesn’t need him. He never did, and that’s final.

He breathes, or tries to, and ends up clambering back out the window.

Two deterred muggings and one…interrupted…attempted murder later, he can breathe again. Mostly, anyway. Easier. Less ragged.

He settles onto his bed, laptop balanced on his knees and Wile E. Coyote blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and picks up the drive. He’s a little wary of it. Could have a tracer file. Could be a virus. Could, maybe, be a bomb. But all the coulds and maybes in the world don’t erase the possibility that it’s what Li said it was-important. The fact that it was in her purse is a point in its favor.

He slumps against the pillows, pulls the blanket tighter around his neck. It’s been a long night and it’s only now two. He hopes Bruce did something stupid that’ll get him yelled at by Alfred. Doesn’t have to be life-threatening, just monumentally dumb. Something that would earn one of the really scathing lectures, the kind were Alfred’s whole self just **screams** , ‘you stupid motherfucker, were you dropped on your head as a baby? Or did you eat paint chips?’

Somehow, those were worse than the looming ones, the ones that came because he was worried, because you jumped in the river to save a kitten and nearly drowned because your stupid ass couldn’t swim.

Anyways. Bruce getting a ‘you goddamn moron’ lecture would make him happy. Moving on.

He flicks the drive open with a cheery **click!** and gets briefly distracted closing it and flicking it open again. For like. Thirty seconds. So sue him, he’s easily amused. He likes pens, too. And not just because they used to annoy the **shit** out of Dick.

**Don’t go there. Focus, idiot.**

He squeezes his eyes shut in case it’s a bomb (What? He doesn’t want to see his imminent demise, thanks.), fumbles a bit until he finds the USB port, and flips the drive around five times before managing to ram it in.

It does not explode. He cracks an eye open, doesn’t see any timer counting down the seconds to his gruesome death, and clicks ‘explore drive’.

And if maybe, for half a second, he reads that as ‘explode drive’, well…there’s nobody around to make fun of him for it.

It’s a full drive, and a well-organized one, he’ll give Li that. Nothing blatant, nothing like ‘criminal activities from June 3rd to August 4th’, which would have been nice, but well-organized. Lotta numbers, lotta stuff moving through. At least half of it’s probably legal enough-like Cobblepot, Sionis Industries flirts with legitimacy here and there-but finding out what is and what isn’t is going to take…time.

Okay. Rex first. That just got in recently, so it’s gotta be…STOP RIGHT THERE.

Staring cheerfully up at him in size ten Times New Fucking Roman are the words ‘Jack White’.

Other people-luckier people-would cross that file off as some businessman or other. Jason knows better. What the hell…Sionis and…and…they don’t like each other (to put it mildly), so why’s he…

He opens the document with trembling fingers, dreading what he’ll find and hoping it’s like, blackmail or something.

It isn’t.

It’s old, dating back several years, but it’s neat and orderly, with a small list of transactions between the two. Nothing specific, but Jason knows what everything is all the same.

He sets the laptop aside very, very carefully, discards the blanket, and takes three running steps to the bathroom to be violently ill, memories of his own screams bouncing off the walls and echoing in the shower.*

**Stop please stop please not again please-!**

That son of a…

He sinks to the floor, fingers scrambling for the flusher, and rests his head against the cold porcelain. That sorry son of a flea-ridden mongrel **bitch**.

It’s not like he didn’t know. That the only one still in the dark (willfully, Jason will swear on his empty grave that he got a replacement in a week) was Br- **Batman**. After all, Joker’s birthday present for him was…well. He called it a surprise party. Jason prefers to think of it as the beating of a lifetime, plus chemical torture. (Fuck you, Crane.) But s’different. That was the **main** crew, the really sick, twisted bastards that do what they do for fun. It’s not like he has great opinions of Sionis, but…

**Breathe.**

There’s pain at the top of his head and he realizes that his fingers have buried themselves there, nails digging into his scalp and pulling his hair a little too hard. He wills himself to drop his hands and struggles up to rinse his mouth out. He’s trembling again, limbs weak like they were when Croc nearly disemboweled him when he was fourteen, and for a second he’s not sure he can walk at all.

But he manages, in the end, to stagger back to bed with a shuffling zombie-gait. Okay. Okay. This changes nothing. It’s over, it’s done, his end plans for the Black Mask have not changed. If anything, he’s now doubly motivated.

He closes the document and opens the most recently-edited folder. Cybertron…okay…

**“Please please no more just kill me please-”**

He twists back for the blanket and pulls it around himself, shivering with remembered cold. This is Batman’s fault. His presence caused the file to undelete or something.

It’s tempting to delete it, but he leaves it there because old training says **don’t tamper with the evidence**. And that’s…that’s evidence.

C-Cybertron’s not. They didn’t build that thing. They modified it, but they didn’t build it. So where the hell did it come from?

**“Make it stop make it stop PLEASE!”**

Water. Water first, then exploration.

 

 

*Apparently you can hear some of this in _Arkham VR_. Some ~~asshole~~ nice person put a video on YouTube. Ask for the link and ye shall receive! (Don’t ask. You don’t want this.)


	55. Masks, Pt. 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at our baby, terrorizing criminals left, right, ‘n center! *sniffs* I’m so proud…anyways, recommended listening: ‘Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums’ from A Perfect Circle.

Burned-out buildings are always creepy, but the crumbling shell of Sionis Industries is…really bad. Cubicles are crumbling, support beams are groaning, and everywhere you look sit remains of that panicked evening when everyone just fuckin’ ran for their lives-dropped mugs, phones hanging off their hooks, abandoned briefcases.

Mario Pepper wishes he wasn’t picked to come and sit here to make sure it didn’t get robbed at night, but the boss is twenty levels of pissed and it just ain’t worth it to go for the ‘I got a wife ‘n kids!’ card.

He takes solace in the shotgun sitting comfortably in his hands. The shotgun’s name is Babe (yup, ‘that’ll do, pig’, shut the fuck up) and it’s seen things. He shot this thing at Batman once. Missed, but still. S’the principle.

A piece of drywall strikes the ground and he turns sharply, eyes wide to try and see anything. There’s nothin’ there.

Why couldn’t they do this in pairs…

His walkie-talkie crackles and Bob’s voice comes over the line.

“Fuck, I’m bored.”

There’s a chorus of ‘shut the fuck up’ and ‘ain’t we all’. Mario snorts and meanders over to a glass divider that somehow survived the rocket.

Fuckin’ Red Hood. This is his fault. Whatever. Y’know what’s drivin’ that body count? Luck and stupid people. Mario’s got good luck and decent brains-made it all the way to eleventh grade, which is more than most of ‘em can say-and he’s lookin’ forward to takin’ that hood to the boss. He’ll prob’ly even get a promotion.

So c’mon, prick. Bring it-what’s that.

He squints, upper lip hitching up like a rabbit’s, and wonders who the hell drew a smiley face on the glass. And when.

He unholsters the walkie-talkie and snaps, “Which one of you fuckers is up here with me?”

“Uh.”

“What?”

“I’m not.”

Hilarious. Jes-us, and they call themselves professionals…they’re an embarrassment to the Henchman’s Guild. Y’know where they’re gonna end up? With Scarecrow, who’ll suffer ‘em for all of three days before dumpin’ their screamin’ remains in Gotham Bay.

Idiots.

“You guys suck.” he mutters, and right then there’s a cut-off scream three stories down.

Okay, this is bad.

A new voice comes over the line, vaguely mechanical, horribly cheerful.

“Shit, guys, I found a body on the thirteenth floor!”

Mario does not get paid enough for this, and he’s not going down there. Okay, so there’s a psycho in the building. The psycho can come up here. There’s one way in-the rickety stairwell-and Mario is just going to park his ass right in front of it, Babe at the ready, and blow him to Kingdom Come.

His dumbass coworkers, on the other hand…

“C’mon, boys, we got a job to do.”

The new voice laughs and there’s the sound of the walkie-talkie being dropped. Maybe Penguin’s sent someone? He hires weirdoes sometimes. Even Zsasz does work for him now and then.

He doesn’t think that’s Zsasz down there. He hopes it’s not Zsasz* down there.

The support beams groan as the building settles and he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and stares into the darkened stairwell. If Zsasz’s bald head appears, he’s going to take as many shots as he can before hurling himself out of the window. It’s better than what the guy’ll do to him.

There’s gunshots and it’s tempting, really tempting, to ask what’s going on, but he doesn’t want to tell whoever’s down there that they’re not all there. This is his only advantage and he’s gonna milk it for all it’s worth.

It’s quiet down there. Maybe they got him, or at least scared him off. They might be stupid, but when there’s five guys with guns, **somebody’s** bound to get a hit in, right? Right?

**Thump.**

WHAT WAS THAT-

He twists around. There is a duffle bag sitting in the middle of the floor. There didn’t used to be a duffle bag sitting in the middle of the floor.

Keeping his gun trained on the stairs, Mario inches over to it and gives it a little nudge. It doesn’t explode and he swallows, reaches down and unzips it.

Oh, God in Heaven-

There’s six heads in there. He knows those heads.

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT-

He turns, intending to make a break for it, and catches a glimpse of red before he’s thrown into a singed desk. The desk breaks under his weight and Babe skitters across the floor, firing a bullet into the wall.

He’s fucked.

The Red Hood has a machete in one hand and a gun in the other. The machete’s dripping and Mario can smell the blood from here.

“No-”

“Shh.” The…whatever the fuck that is…moves closer, quieter than it has any business being. “It’ll only hurt for a second.”

**SLICE!**

 

 

*The Zsasz I use hails from _Gotham_ , and his reputation is **nasty** -he cleared out the GCPD with a simple please.


	56. Ho-Ho-Homicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, Jason makes it his mission to ruin the Magic of Santa Claus and Festivus for Gotham’s Underworld.
> 
> …
> 
> Shower thoughts, man. (Free Warm Fuzzies: Jason’s probably the type to hand out candy/gloves to any kids he runs into.) Recommended listening: ‘Santa Baby’ or hilarious carol of choice. Don’t have one? ‘Santa is a Psycho’ is always good, as is the ever-beloved, ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’.
> 
> IMPORTANT: I didn't realize this, but Ao3 ate, like...all of 'Masks, pt. 12', so you miiiight wanna go back and reread that, because I fixed it. In theory-maybe it was there for a bit, I dunno. Anyways. Something to keep in mind.

Really, Race has to give it to the guy. Not many people can glue a pom-pom to their, uh, helmet and still manage to be pants-shittingly-scary. But there he is, all who-cares-how-many-feet and however-many-pounds-he-is of **pissed** , with a glittery white pom-pom stuck smack-dab in the middle of that merciless red helmet.

And Race knows he’s so very screwed. Snickering hasn’t even crossed his mind.

The Red Hood leans over and props the metal pipe he’s holding against a nearby chimney.

“Y’know my favorite part about the holidays?” Should he answer? Speaking might be a bad idea. “Festivus. And yeah, I know, _Seinfeld’s_ old and lame, but that always spoke to me. ‘Specially the bit about the pole and the airing of grievances.”

Huh. He’s so confused. What the hell. Is he or is he not gonna die here.

“So I got to thinkin’, ‘Hood,’ I thought to myself, ‘Red, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, what about a **portable** Festivus pole? Then **everyone** can get in on this happy tradition!’ So here we are. You, me, a pole, and a hellova lotta grievances to air.” Race doesn’t like the pole. He thinks that’s brain matter on the bottom of it. “I’ll go first, ‘kay? I think that’s fair, since I did all this set-up.”

“Please-”

A gloved finger pops up and wags back and forth inches from Race’s nose.

 **“Shhh.”** Race shhhs. “Manners.” Heh…manners…sure. “First things first, my friend, this ain’t our first chit-chat. I told you the **first** time I caught you hangin’ around the high school that we don’t operate that way down ‘ere.” He’s hefted up by the collar and tossed to the ground by the pole. Crawling away is not an option. Rooftop aside, that busted ankle isn’t doing anything aside from HURT. “And where did I see you on this frozen winter’s morn?”

He doesn’t answer. He regrets it when the, uh, pole gets popped back into the guy’s hand and taps the ground near his shattered ankle.

“Bythehighschool.”

The Red Hood nods sagely, pom-pom bobbing gently with the movement.

“That’s right. It’s like you weren’t even listening. That’s hurtful.” He taps his chest and bows his head in what would be sad on normal people and is just ominous on him. “And then, when I went home to see about your address, what popped up on your Facebook but some pushy posts…on a sixteen-year-old girl’s wall.”

Oh fuck.

“She said she was-”

“I’ve heard that one before.” The voice has gone from unsettlingly jovial to very, very flat. “And maybe she did. But **her** Facebook has her age, which means you should have adulted the fuck up and backed off.”

His mind blanks. All it can do is throw up whispers from the survivors. None of ‘em are pretty.

He thinks he should say sorry. That might help, right?

“I’m s-”

This time the pole brushes against his ankle, sending new waves of crunching pain scurrying up his nerves.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Y’know what they say…he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake…and here’s the really important part, sing it with me now… **he knows when you’ve been bad or good**.” He’s hyperventilating, remembering blurry cell phone footage. The Red Hood shrugs, cracking as he does so. “Looks to me like you’re on the Naughty List.”

“I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll never come back to Gotham, I **swear-** ”

“What? And let you be a blight on some other town without Yours Truly around to look after ‘em? I couldn’t. I’ve got a conscience, y’know.” He can see his face reflected in the helmet. Looks like he’s covered in blood and **somebody please help him**. “I know tradition says coal, but all I’ve got are bullets. Tough luck.”

“No, no, please-”

**BLAM!**

THE END


	57. Masks, Pt. 21

AN: Song rec: Zayde Wolf’s ‘Born Ready’, because that would be the song for Trailer 1 of that beautiful Red Hood series we’ll never get. Think of it, opening shot of the carnage-

**I don’t leave ‘carnage’. I leave a nice, clean crime scene. No evidence, bodies stacked up nice so’s no one trips on ‘em in the dark, sticky note with the what ‘n why. Because I wasn’t raised by wolves.**

You know what I meant.

**Just sayin’. Mom always said, she said, ‘Jayjay, sweetheart, you make as big a mess as you want, but you clean it up after’, and ‘cause I wasn’t the kid from Hell, I LISTENED.**

Hoo, boy…anyways, second part of this story’s soundtrack is now available on 8tracks.

* * *

Jason doubts he’ll use ‘gather heads of minions’ as a threat again any time soon. It’s messy. People sorta…gush…when you cut their heads off. S’kinda gross. Not, like, vomit-inducing gross, but definitely on par with, say, the forgotten-about leftovers in the back of the fridge, the ones that might be sort of alive.

Oh, well.

He left the bag of heads (heavier than you’d think, actually) by the door. On top of it, he placed a burner phone with his number programmed in. Now it’s just a matter of waiting.

He’s settled on his couch, checking over the shotgun he lifted from that last guy. Hey, free guns are free guns, if they’re not shitty or anything. Shotguns aren’t his favorite, but they have their uses in life. If he ever needs to masquerade as a henchman, he’ll be all set.

Now that he’s made a point-and, yeah, channeled that shock and anger and helpless fury-he’s feeling a little better. Little tired, and old injuries he’d sort-of forgotten are hurting a bit, but now he’s contentedly tired. Like…kinda like after spending all day cleaning or somethin’, when you’re worn out but not fall-down-exhausted.

Somewhere in that emotional ballpark. He’s short on comparisons, okay? So sue him, the best role model he’s had is a guy who thinks ‘dressing up like a ninja with ears and recruiting hapless kids into a poorly-fought war’ is a healthy coping mechanism.

(It’s not, Bruce. It’s really, really not and you’re both old enough to know better and young enough to Google ‘non-supervillain therapists’. Fucker.)

Well? C’mon, Roman, he’s startin’ to feel like a girl who accidentally gave her number to a douche. Pick up the phone and call already, man.

This’s a good shotgun. Well cared-for. He’s glad he spotted it-

**“BANG YOUR HEAD!”**

Oh, yeahhhh. New phone, new ringtone.

He doesn’t know the number, but given the delivery he made this morning…

He flips it open with a cheery, “Red Hood, I stab ‘em, you slab ‘em!”

“Hilarious.” comes the deadpan voice on the other end. He knows. He’s a regular comedian. S’what happens when you spend a year in the company of clowns.

“Well, I thought it was. About time you called. Here was me thinkin’ our time together meant nothing.”

He can just **see** him counting to ten. Ahh, that unique talent of annoying villains. S’a Robin Original, he’ll cop to that.

“Any reason you felt the need to decapitate my men?”

“I didn’t have your number.” If he listens closely, he can hear Sionis’ blood pressure rising. “And it’s not like you’re on Twitter.”

“You’ll **be** twittering when I’m done with your sorry ass-”

Credit where credit’s due, that sounded ominous.

“We need to talk about who gets custody of the dinosaur.”

“You need to die quietly.” Sionis snarls. “You know what happened to Red Riding Hood, kid? That’s gonna be you, with no woodsman to save you.”

Nngh. Hopefully the Red Riding Hood shot won’t become a thing, that’s stupid. And likely to get him some weird fairy-tale-themed villain as a result.

“The grab bag was your only warning, Roman.” he says, falling sideways across the couch and tipping his head back to see if he has an onion on the counter. “Unless you want me to really come down on you, get your pushers under control, and leave the dinosaur next to GCPD.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck off, kid.”

Well, he tried the diplomatic approach.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” he says curtly. “I’d start checking under your bed at night.”

He hangs up and hauls his carcass off the couch to see about the onion. Jambalaya’s sounding really, really nice, might clear up the last of this goddamn mucus…yes! Onion.

His phone rings again and he flips it off. When it doesn’t stop, he shoves it in between the couch cushions with the solemn air of someone smothering a man with a pillow.

There. The deed is done. Now. Food.

* * *

Maybe it’s a side effect of living in Gotham, but Jason kinda figured Cybertron Industries to be headquartered in a warehouse, maybe the kind with open acid vats and No Smoking signs that everybody ignores.

It’s actually downtown, in one’a the big glass buildings that could be anything. The founder’s clearly not local, then. Probably from fuckin’ Metropolis. Goddamn transplants…they’re the first to flounce into the street mid-supervillain attack, too. Seriously, if Ivy’s plants eat somebody, ninety percent the time it’s a tourist or a transplant. Locals stay inside. Locals have common sense. Usually.

He lets himself in through the vents (Gotham buildings always, always have obscenely large vents, and Jason’s pretty sure Bruce has something to do with that) a little after seven-thirty. It’s pleasantly air-conditioned, with a few low-level lights on. Smells of computer.

He may or may not miss Barbara for a second or two. The clock tower smells like computer, too, and books and vanilla because she’s got a weakness for vanilla lattes.

Oh, well.

Okay. Infrared says there’s the janitorial squad spread through the building, and a couple’a workers still in their offices. According to the clock-in/clock-out list, one of those is the manager. Great!

The manager is actually two stories above him. In the interest of increasing the woman’s willingness to answer his questions, he reenters the vents and begins his trek.

He hates vents. He’s never liked them all that much-they smell and half the time you’re likely to find dead shit in them-but his, ah, Arkham Vacation had the happy side effect of giving him a dislike for dark, cramped spaces. The first time he entered one…after…he got maybe three feet in before having to back right the hell out and find another way into the building. He’s better now, after some self-given exposure therapy, but he still doesn’t like them.

**Smoggy skylines and the never-ending freeway and that shitty park downtown with lead paint…**

Ah. Here she is…aw, fudge ripple cone…

He drops out of the vent. Necks don’t bend that way. He should know.

He does a quick sweep of the room, doesn’t see any ninjas or anything, and moves closer to the body. To someone walking by, she looks normal enough-still sitting at the desk, hands on the keyboard and everything-but her head’s too loose and too far sideways.

He’s not surprised. Dismayed, but not surprised. Okay…first things first, fingerprints-

“Oh my god-”

Never mind, new tactic. First things first, shut that person up.

He turns around. It’s a guy in a suit, clutching a folder like a kid’s teddy bear, looking about to hurl.

“Please don’t hurt me-”

Oh. Reasonable assumption…

“I didn’t do this.” And then, just in case he’s Involved somehow, “But this could be you if you don’t talk.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, okay, I’m just the intern, though, I gotta do this for my business major so I don’t fail-”

“But not right this second.”

Intern’s mouth clamps shut. Okay…there are fingerprints, kinda smudged, like you get with shitty plastic gloves…

He hears a janitor’s cart down the hall.

**NOPE.**

He grabs Intern, who clutches his folder all the tighter, and grapples through the window to a nearby rooftop. Intern, the ungrateful bastard, pukes on his boots.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I **swear-** ”

“Stay here and keep low, I don’t wanna come back to find your head shot open.” Intern turns a little green and he inches away, bile making his boots stick to the roof. Ugh. Good thing it rains all the time… “I’ll be back, so don’t run away.”

“Mm-”

The next round might be projectile vomit, and he’s just not paid enough to deal with that. He heads back towards the building, landing on a fire escape near the broken window. The janitor’s cart is outside the door, and the so-called janitor is in the room, looking towards the window.

He only feels a little bad knocking a fifty-year-old lady to the floor. Fifty-year-old ladies can be assassins, too.

But not this one, apparently-she doesn’t try to kill him or mock him, just shrieks and starts begging to be spared.

Oops.

“Please-”

“Sorry…” He pulls her up. She’s unharmed-a little bruised, probably, but nothing’s broken. “You really do work here?”

“For three years!” She jerks a finger towards the corpse at the desk. “Three years I’ve worked for her! And you-you-”

“I didn’t do that.”

“Bullshit!”

Ah, and here’s the downside of throwing the no-kill rule out the window. Maybe this is why serial killers have calling cards…

“I didn’t, Mrs…Ingalls. I promise I didn’t. But whoever did is probably still in the building.” She pales even further, if that’s possible, and he tries to make himself seem a little more harmless. Tries. “Is there anyone here that you don’t know?”

She nods and swallows and tears her eyes away from the desk.

“Th-there’s a temp. She’s on the third floor, she was a rush-in because the usual man’s got the flu.”

Yeah, lead flu, maybe.

“Okay. Come on, I’m gonna get you somewhere safe and deal with her, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”

Never underestimate the mental strength of middle-aged women. Never. Ingalls is no exception-she straightens up and says, voice only shaking a little bit, “If you try **anything** , this squeegee is going where the sun don’t shine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He checks the hall. Empty. “Sorry for knockin’ ya over…uh, is there a panic room up here?”

“The offices have deadbolts.”

Fine. The one next door’s empty, she’ll be fine there. No corpses.

“Okay. Someone’ll come tell you when it’s safe, okay? Just don’t open the door.”

“Don’t open the door…take me for an idiot…”

She’ll be fine.

Once he hears the bolt go, he eyes the vents again. Third floor it is.

The infrared says there’s no one down here. The cart’s still here, though. It is not, thankfully, wired to blow.

It’s not riddled with deadly weapons, either. The worst thing on there is a bottle of bleach, and while he can definitely confirm that yeah, drinking bleach is not fun (thanks for that, Harley), it’s not a practical murder weapon.

**Come out, come out, wherever you are…**

The elevator rumbles and he ducks around the corner, presses flat against the wall.

**Ding!**

The strains of some sax song in the public domain squeak out before the door closes. There’s no rumbling of another cart.

Excellent.

At least, until he steps out with the intention of throwing the fear of an unpleasant demise into his suspect and a bullet whistles past his head.

Well, she started it.

‘She’ turns out to be the walking incarnation of a Disney Grandma-short, tiny round spectacles, pink floral clothing, gray bun.

**You gotta be kidding me!**

And this is why Gothamites have trust issues…

Disney Grandma or not, she nearly chipped his goddamn helmet and (theoretically) broke that woman’s neck. So it’s very necessary to shoot back.

Blood spatters from her knee and she goes down, pistol (tiny, pearl-handled pistol, Jes- **us** ) falling from her hand. He takes it, grabs a mop from the cart, and jabs at her knee with the handle.

“You fucking-”

Disney Grandmas are not supposed to swear.

“You responsible for the corpse upstairs?”

“Bite me.”

He gives her another jab and she screams, tries to pull away. He’s gonna take that as a yes.

“You’d think he’d learn.” he says regretfully, letting the broom fall. “Oh, well…”

**BANG!**

Despite what Valentine’s Day would have you believe, pink and red really don’t go well together.

* * *

Intern is huddled in the middle of the roof, rocking back and forth and curled around his file. Below, cop cars surround the building.

“How long you been workin’ here?”

“Like six months.”

Long enough to be useful, then.

“And what exactly do you do?”

“I intern! I get coffee and shadow people!”

Gee, sorry for not gettin’ the chance to intern. Unless Robin counts as interning…s’kinda similar, maybe. You follow Batman around and draw gunfire.

“Who do you shadow, then?”

“D-d-depends.” Intern swallows. “Sometimes the manager, sometimes one’a the guys in the lab.”

“You ever see a robotic tyrannosaur down there?”

Frantic nodding.

“Y-yeah. I think they were doing it for the museum, makin’ it more lifelike.”

Oh, yeah. Real lifelike. He can just see the swarms of third-graders being excited about running away from the exhibit.

“You know anything else about that?”

“I only saw it once, they kicked me out.”

Oh-ho, is that so?

“Gimme your phone.”

Intern fishes a smartphone from inside his jacket and hands it over with trembling fingers. Apple. Great, Intern’s phone is a piece of shit. It better not eat his number…*

“Okay…you remember anything else, you lemme know, okay?”

“Um, Mister Red Hood?”

“Hm.”

“How’m I gonna get down?”

“Scream for help.”

“What-”

He leaves. It’s only fair punishment for bein’ puked on.

 

 

 

* **Nokia: the official phone of Gotham’s Vigilantes. Lives forever and can be used as an emergency bludgeon. And if it falls out of your pocket mid-roof-swing, it won’t shatter on the pavement!**


	58. Bat (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I…okay, I panicked when this JERK was just THERE, okay? I wasn’t expecting that. Shut up. Multiple people across the sites have informed me they’re sick, so…this is for you, Plague Bearers. Feel better! (I got sick remedies out the wazoo, so if you’re desperate, hit me up, I know your pain.)

Antoine is secure in his masculinity. So he’s not ashamed to admit that he screams like a little girl when a monster crashes onto the APC, roars and flails, and finally manages to fly off into the night sky.

He slumps back into the seat, breathing deeply and trying not to have a heart attack. What the hell. What the hell. That was not Batman. That had teeth and wings and HE WAS NOT WARNED ABOUT THIS.

“Drouot.” Shit. “What happened?”

“Uh.” He’s trying, he’s really trying to remember if this was in a briefing, but he can’t think apart from FLYING MONSTER HIT ME AND FLEW AWAY. “Uh. I don’t know. Sir.”

“You don’t know why you started screaming.”

“No! No. Um. Something…hit the APC.”

Silence. Antoine can envision the helmet gazing blankly at a wall and radiating, ‘I deserve better than this’.

“And what was this ‘something’?”

“A bat.”

Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

“Batman hit your vehicle and you didn’t take advantage of this?”

“It wasn’t Batman! It had wings! It can fly! And it crashed into the car and roared at me and flew away, I **swear** -”

“Drouot.”

“Sir?”

“Have you, by any chance, been exposed to Crane’s toxin?”

“No.” Shit. Maybe. Craaaaaap what if he has and doesn’t know it and-

No. No, he hasn’t been. He knows this for a fact.

More silence. Then, “If you say so.”

* * *

The Knight doesn’t bring the incident up again and Antoine doesn’t see the thing for two hours.

But two hours later, they’re on an airship, waiting for the boys to bring back Stagg and anything useful, when Antoine sees something big fly past the window.

His life has become a goddamn horror movie and he doesn’t like it.

“Sir?”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.” The boss doesn’t look up from the laptop. “Whatever it is, it can-”

**SKREEEEEE!**

Antoine cringes. The Knight sets the laptop aside and stands up, crosses to the window.

“Now what?”

On one hand, he’s pretty sure that was rhetorical. On the other hand, FLYING BAT MONSTER.

Before he can explain this, the Knight pulls the door open and leans out. Welp. Nice knowin’ ya, boss, he’ll make sure the guys know **how stupid and avoidable** your death was.

Well, he says that. What happens is that the bat-monster rockets upwards and Antoine yanks the boss back in the chopper before it can, like, grab him and fly him off to feed it to its little bat-monster babies or whatever.

“That’s new.”

‘That’s new’, he says…what. WHAT. WHAT DOES HE MEAN, ‘THAT’S NEW’.

He’s never coming back here. No vacations, no relocating, never.

He may or may not shed a single tear of sorrow for the dumpster fire his life has become.

“Drouot.”

“Sir.”

**Please don’t sky-dive after it, just shut the door and pretend you didn’t see it.**

“Bring the rocket launcher over here.”

He’s tempted to say he can’t find it, but he brings it over anyway and steps well back. If it gets pissed off, he does not want it to see him. The blame can go right where it belongs, thank you very much.

“Maybe we should just leave it alone, boss.”

The Knight, as per usual, ignores him. Fine. Go die, then. Antoine’s gonna go find a snack, preferably something crunchy so he can tell the guys, ‘yeah, I didn’t hear shit, I looked over and he was gone’.

**CRA-ACK!**

In the distance, a building catches fire. There’s no screeching or physical assaults, so he either hit it or scared it. It’s…it’s something.

“Uh, boss?”

“Give everyone a heads up. I don’t want any more sudden shrieks in my ear.”

Heh…look, it had come out of nowhere, okay?

“Yes, sir.”

THE END


	59. I Didn't Mean To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason did-and still does, to a point-hate Batman. But Batman is not Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is a damn dork who makes Dad Jokes and gets banned from the kitchen because he tried to make scrambled eggs and set the stove on fire. Big difference. (Note that when confronted by Bruce-talking rather than punching and gadgets-Jason chose to run rather than shoot, and he had opportunities galore. Plus, y’know, coming back at the end.)
> 
> I’m sorry in advance.

Jason scrunches into the smallest ball he can, ragged gasps drying his throat and warming his knees.

**What did I just do?**

“Great job, Todders! We’ll make you a good boy yet!” The Joker laughs at something he finds funny and Jason cringes, scrubs his fingers against his already ruined uniform.

**No, no, please, I didn’t mean to this isn’t what I wanted I thought-**

The b-body, so much like Batman but not really, remains stubbornly still, head lolling at a wrong angle. He didn’t…he hadn’t wanted…

**Dad?**

S’just a cheap costume, he can see that now, b-but earlier it wasn’t it wasn’t and it was gonna kill him it was self-defense but he didn’t mean for it to go this far, it was an accident-

**I’m sorry I’m sorry I wanna go home please-**

Joker’s still laughing when he comes over, hauls Jason up and drags him towards the corpse.

“Take a look, kiddo!”

He tries to jerk away because this isn’t what he wanted he wants to go home ‘n he wants his dad-

That was a mistake. Joker shoves him to his knees inches from the…from…from **it** and bends down, yellow ‘n red grin all but wrapping around his white face.

“Give it a hug.”

“No-”

**“HUG YOUR DADDY!”**

He pukes instead, bile and half-digested pill coatings that fills his mouth with sickly-sweet acid. Joker laughs again, doubled over with his arms around his knees, looking at him upside-down.

**I wanna go home please somebody-**

Abruptly, the laughing stops. Jason’s still gasping for breath and spitting blue strings of…of **blech** on the tiles when a purple, boney hand pulls him the last few inches closer. The purple hands grab his wrists and pull him upright, pressing his back against that crinkly clown suit, and he’s manhandled down again,

**Let go let go please don’t**

made so that his arms are folded gently around the limp, lolling neck. He can still hear the **crack!** in his ears a-and see the sudden, horrible limpness and **he didn’t mean-**

Robin doesn’t kill and Bruce won’t want him back, not now, not after this, this fucker’s ruined him and-

**Dad, please…**

Joker suddenly lets go of him and he can’t catch himself in time to stop jostling the corpse’s head and making it **move** with an awful **crick-crack-crick-crack** like broken glass.

“Have fun with your new cellmate, Todders! I’ve got to run. Place to go, people to slay.”

No. No, no, please-

But the clown’s gone, and Jason’s left alone in the dark room with the glassy-eyed corpse that watches him no matter what corner he tries to hide in.

He didn’t mean to. God, he didn’t want this, he never meant…

**Somebody help me.**

THE END


	60. The Mistake to Shape All Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry. But. I had to. You understand, don’t you, how necessary this is? I’m like Pippin. I have to look. And then, well, my inner villain comes out to play and I have to share.
> 
> SUCKS TO BE YOU! Sucks to be me, too, I’m aallllmost done with the next bit of ‘Masks’, but UGH. So. Suffer while you wait.

Jason thinks that Bruce didn’t realize how bad this was, when he sent him here. With all their arguments lately, he wouldn’t have…he never…

The smell of blood hits him first, followed a moment later by the slashing ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHA’ scrawled across the wall in brownish-red. On the floor…

Look. He grew up in Crime Alley, okay. He’s seen things that Bruce, for all his Batmanning, can’t imagine. He’s seen the depths of human depravity. But not like this, **fuck** , not like this.

The body he can see is a box of flesh-colored Crayolas, Black head, white neck, tanned hands with chipping glitter on the nails (and oh, he can imagine their owner grinning at how pretty they were, no idea what-).

He takes as deep a breath as he’s able, because there’s civvies and cops and they’re expecting him to make this right. S’Robin’s job, and isn’t that bullshit, that a kid has to do what the goddamn adults should’ve done a long time ago.

He’ll do his job. He’ll make this right, no matter the cost. He’ll fix this.

Gordon’s shooting him sympathetic looks and he’s not sure if he’s grateful for **somebody** here havin’ a lick’a sense, or if he’s pissed because fuck you, Gordon, you’re part of the problem.

Both. Both is good.

There’s an ugly suture needle on the ground by the glitter-nailed fingers, stark black thread still hangin’ out of it. That. He wants that.

“Who called.” His voice comes out soundin’ more like Batman than Robin but Robin’s not here, this isn’t the place for wisecracks and bright light. Not now.

“Harley Quinn. After the fact.”

Fine.

He’s always felt a little sorry for Harley. But not now, not after this. She could’ve stopped him, she could’ve done **something**. This wasn’t a whim. Joker acts on whims less than he’d like Gotham to believe.

“Any witnesses?” he asks, willing his voice to stay flat even as a father kneels beside the mish-mash (a boy’s head stitched on backwards) of…of…

He doesn’t envy the morticians.

“No.” Gordon hands over a card. “This was left for Batman.”

Of course it was, because that son of a bitch thinks this is a game, some sorta high-stakes speed chess with Bruce and Bruce won’t stop playing-

“I’ll take it to him, Commissioner.” Maybe. Along with Joker’s head. He’ll end the game himself, if no one else is going to step up.

“You okay, son?”

He swallows the urge to snap, **I’m not your goddamn son** , forces a nod and some mockery of Robin’s sunny, ‘all will be well, citizen!’ grin.

“Peachy.”

He takes the suture needle with him when he leaves.

* * *

Joker may not act on whims, but he does act on what he thinks is **funny**. Between the card-a cartoon ragdoll proclaiming, **You leave me in stitches!,** and the needle, Jason has a good guess that he’s hiding in that abandoned sewing shop downtown. It’s a busy place, bright and easy to blend into-exactly the type of place he likes.

Hopefully Bruce will understand that this was necessary. He taught him, didn’t he, to do the right thing? Mom taught him that, and Bruce and Alfred, and…

And sometimes the right thing is hard.

**We all have to make sacrifices.**

He knows Bruce has him covered in trackers. Joke’s on him, Jason knows where they are-and how to disable them. S’a good skill to have, in case Batman goes crazy and Jason has to ditch him. What can he say, he can be prepared, too.

Like now. They’re turned off, his coms are offline, and he’s got Alfred’s handgun. He’s taking no chances. A quick, clean shot to the head. Maybe a few, to make sure he doesn’t get back up. But no fancy death traps, no poetic justice, nothing stupid like that. That’s asking for trouble.

He hopes, a little, that Bruce will forgive him. Knows he won’t, but hopes otherwise. S’for. For the best.

Okay. Four guys up front, unarmed and swaggering a bit like they might be drunk. No sign of Harley and Joker, but there’s two skeletons in the basement of the building that he’s betting are probably them. That’s fine. He’s not after the mooks, he doesn’t want that much blood on his conscience.

And he doesn’t have that many bullets.

They go down easy, thanks to a two-birds-with-one-stone hit with a hanging lamp. The noise doesn’t seem to have brought the clown running, but he’s probably hoping a candlelight supper with Batman.

He’s in for a nasty surprise.

He checks. The skeletons are still in the basement and now that he’s inside, Harley’s fire siren of a voice is unmistakable.

“-but _puddin’-_ ”

There’s a slap. Jason can’t find it in him to feel all that sorry for her. She made her choice.

He looks at the suture needle again. The blood’s dry now, but it doesn’t matter, he can see it carving through mismatched skin, creating new mockeries of Frankenstein’s Monster.

God, he hopes they were dead before it started.

He swallows, takes one last look at the rainy street, and steps over the unconscious body closest to the staircase.

There’s no light here. That’s better. This stupid traffic-light costume is a liability as it is, but it’s the armor he wants and…and Robin has to make things right. That’s his job.

He sees the skeletons. Sure enough, it’s Harley and-

“SURPRISE, BIRD BOY!”

-not Joker?

Heavy metal connects with his ankle and he feels it splinter, suddenly refuse to hold his weight. He drops, gun skittering from his hand and into a dark corner, and Joker’s on him, screaming with laughter. What the hell, where was the bastard if not down here he came from behind him-

**Focus-**

He’s powered through worse, he has, he can do this-

And then the metal-crowbar, he sees its teeth now-clocks him in the head and everything goes black.

THE END


	61. Masks, Pt. 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m considering (a word which here means ‘I’m totally gonna do it and have written like half of it already’) doing an arc with Sheila Haywood. Don’t know the name? Enjoy your innocence. Do know the name? Yeah, I’d love to say ‘this hurts me more than it hurts you’, but, well…if I’m going to suffer, so are you, so buckle up, buttercups.

Intern’s mention of the museum jogged Jason’s memory a little bit, which is why sunrise finds him going through Li’s flash drive again, searching for that **one** file…where **is** it…

There it is!

He wasn’t too far off, when he wondered if the dinosaur came from a museum rummage sale. Technically, it kind of did-Sionis picked it up from a broker, who bought it from the Penguin when he moved on from his museum. (Rumor has it there were corpses in that museum, but nobody can prove anything.)

It’s not like the invoice **says** , ‘purchased: one dinosaur, light wear only’, but, contrary to what the papers thought of him when Bruce took him in, he can put two and two together. Price tag, specs…his first thought was that it was guns, maybe a big diamond cutter (so many uses for that), but he knows better now.

He wonders, a little, if he can keep it. That’d be so badass…the Red Hood-ON A TYRANNOSAUR. Can he make it breathe fire?

Nah, he’ll probably have to blow it up. Bruce’ll take it. He likes to keep things, the bastard. Never mind that he already HAS one. You’d think he could let Jason have this one nice thing, y’know, as an apology for sucking…he should’ve taken that time he lost him in the mall as the omen it truly was. Oh, to be so young and stupid again…

Oh, well.

Friggin’ Sionis…he **expects** this from, like, the Riddler. He likes this sorta gimmicky crap. Hell, even Penguin has his moments-assassination via cassowary? Jesus, Ozzie, that’s called ‘overkill’. But he’d expected more, somehow, from ol’ Roman. He’d hoped, a bit, for a decent, non-embarrassing nemesis. A bit’a class. Like Blofeld, y’know? A little dramatic, sure, but…not like this. Not like this.

One day…

So. Rex went from Penguin to broker to Sionis, with no mention of it doing anything that’s not normal museum-display-stuff. Roared, maybe. Maybe moved its head. At least he knows where it came from.

His phone buzzes. Unknown number. Time to play ‘is it spam, death threats, or something useful?’ game.

**It’s here.**

Who’s texting…

**Intern? Is that you?**

**Uh, Steve. My name is Steve.** Too bad, he’s just finished putting the number in under ‘Intern’. That is his name forever and ever now. **The, uh, the thing that we talked about. It’s here.**

Oh, boy. Intern seems to think this is going to play out like a spy movie. Hopefully he’s not gonna need to knock any delusions of sidekickery out of him…at least with the kids he can make it easy. ‘Naw, you guys do the best work right here, where I don’t have to worry about ya getting shot and nobody’s payin’ ya any mind.’ He’s never had an eager adult before. Could be awkward. Or worse-could play out badly, and he could accidentally create a new supervillain. People have snapped for less.

**Be cool. Don’t draw attention to yourself. And delete your texts.**

There. He’s done what he can to keep another death off his conscience.

He doesn’t really wanna go. There’s a reason he doesn’t go out in the daytime. But. But. It’s there, it’s probably gettin’ work done, he has **choices.**

Eh, maybe if he goes out just this once, the fear of him doing it again will shut down somebody’s daytime operation.

* * *

You’d never know there’s been two murders in this building. Seriously. No cops, no emergency clean-up crew, no nothing. It’s…well, it’s Gotham, it’s not that surprising, but still. He’d have thought there’d be whispers, at least.

But no. From his uncomfortable position in the vents, he’s heard all about ‘that bitch Janice brought tuna fish again, I swear to God-’ and ‘what the hell, why are all the forks in the sink’ and one bout of moaning and grunting that told him more than he ever wanted to know about the utility closet.*

But no murder-talk. What kinda place is this?

Whatever. He’ll look into it more later, but right now, he’s got places to be.

Intern’s nowhere to be seen, and Jason has no intention of finding him. If he finds him, he might try to help, which might get somebody killed. Intern can die on his own time, Jason’s not interested in seeing if the Light is Heaven’s Gate or Hellfire.

The rex is in the lower lab-the lead-lined lab that he has to **go into**. Ugh. The things he does for this city…if he gets shot and dies down here, he’s gonna be so fucking pissed…

Whatever. He’s in, it’s fine.

The room is crawling with people and bright lights. He can see cameras, a couple’a guys with guns, and the, uh, robot of the hour.

And of course his helmet sticks out like blood in the snow.

It’s time to return to the kitchen vents. Somebody’s about to be blamed for something they didn’t do. He’s sorry about that.

He rifles through the fridge until he comes up with the much-maligned tuna (casserole? He’ll eat just about anything, but blech). Y’know what, he’s not sorry, this is for the good of humanity. There are **pickles** in there. There is no reason for there to be pickles in there.

He sticks it in the microwave along with a metal fork and scrambles back into the vents to wait. It’s not long before there’s a, “Smells like someone’s cookin’ a goddamn cat!” and a, “Do you smell smoke?”

The fire alarm goes off. The lab evacuates. Jason swings for the closest camera, taser in hand, and short-circuits it.

Once the cameras are out of commission, he considers his rex-related options. Now would be a good time to shut it down, he knows that. There’s no one here, it’s not gonna get turned on…but.

But. Two things will happen if he blows it up now. One, Sionis will go to ground. It’s not like Jason won’t find him if he does. But it’ll be time-consuming, probably messy, and the odds of Batman getting involved will go up. Right now, he should be busy-that fuckin’ bat-monster’s been sighted uptown-but that won’t keep him forever.

Two, blowing this up without immediately dealing with its owner has a ninety percent chance of retaliation. Which Jason would be fine with, except that for a lot of these assholes, ‘retaliation’ is code for ‘start torturing innocent civilians to death’ or ‘oh, hey, a preschool, let’s go in’. Best case, he sends more assassins and people get caught in the crossfire. Or he gets shot again. That’s kinda bad.

He makes his way onto the robot itself, hoping it doesn’t, like, record things, and takes a good, long look. The ‘skin’ is half-off around the ribcage, showcasing the inner workings. They’ll be back to muck with that, so anything he does-self-destruct, tracker-will be noticed. Moving on.

He squirms into the mouth, legs hanging half out and feeling equal parts relieved and bummed that it smells like a car and not, y’know, an actual mouth, and shines his flashlight down the throat.

There doesn’t seem to be much up here-there’s a speaker, and he’s well aware that the jaws can crush a man, but other than that…other than that, there doesn’t seem to be much reason for them to poke around up here. And maybe…

He pulls his knife-well, his best one, taken from a fallen League member, cuts through bone-out and cuts a flap of silicone free, just above one of the back teeth. Not enough to really notice, or to consider odd, but enough for him to slip one of his remote electrical bombs in. It’ll sit there, hopefully undetected, until he hits the switch.

Once that’s situated, he pulls out one more thing-a small tracker, similar to the ones his Robin suit used to have-and tucks it in. There.

He squirms back out and takes his leave. It’s been a productive day.

 

 

*Y’know the real reason they cleared the city in _Knight_? So Batman’s detective mode wouldn’t pick up anything rated X. Thank you, developers, from the bottom of my black little heart.


	62. Masks, Pt. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the beginning of a one-shot titled 'Don't Send Me No Angels (and No Fucking Mimes, Either)', but I wasn't sure where I wanted it to go, so I tweaked it. It existed because I was listening to Dorothy's 'Dark Nights' (that video is hilarious, check it) and the mental image of Jason getting, like, really into a round of Shower Karoke just...wouldn't leave. So. Here we are.
> 
> Sorry.

Seeing as he's not gravely injured (or even in that much pain), it's safe to go in his front door. He even manages it without getting busted by a neighbor. Ten points to Ravenclaw.

He does a sweep and checks his coffee (fucking Dick-and he means that in **every** sense of the word) and starts shrugging off his weapons. Shower first. He's not bloody or anything, but one, Gotham is scuzzy and two, he got thrown into a puddle of vomit earlier and he wants it off **now**.

Thank god for rain. That really could have been worse.

Getting everything off is easy enough. Unfortunately, he brushes bare fingers against something yellow and sticky and y'know, he's feelin' real pity for Mulder in that one X-Files episode. The one with the stretchy bile guy.

Ahh. Shitty water pressure or not, it's warm and not-yellow. Once he's scrubbed his nails and tried (and failed) to coax his hair into a mohawk, he plays air-guitar for a few minutes until the water starts to get cold.

It was nice while it lasted.

He's shuffling towards his bed, hair still wet and shirt in hand, when he notices the kitchen light's on.

Okay. That's...he doesn't leave lights on, and he hasn't been in there since he got home. So...maybe Mz. Melinda May dropped off a vegetable? She doesn't have a key, but she's amazing with those knitting needles. Also, she's scary-maybe she made the landlord open the door.

He doubts it, but no way is any competent assassin leaving the damn light on. Hell, if it's an assassin, he'll let them get in a pity-hit, because this is just sad.

He pulls the shirt on, pokes his head into the kitchen, and sees nothing. Okay then.

He turns off the light, reaching for the gun he **knows** he left on the table, and feels empty air.

Um. He's not out of it. He's not drugged, bleeding, or concussed. He **knows** where he dropped his own guns this evening.

Aw, hell.

He backs against the wall, tensed to duck, and sees...

You're kidding.

You're fucking kidding him, this isn't...that's...

 **Fucking Gotham.** That's the only explanation.

It's a mime. This is not a euphemism, or an exaggeration, or **anything**. It is an actual, black-and-white-and-really-creepy mime, just visible in the streetlight's glow.

Jason doesn't like mimes. It's not like he's...scared of them, exactly, it's just that...they're like a knock-off-Joker. Generic Joker, or whatever. He doesn't like them, that's all.

"You're kidding."

He wonders, briefly, if somebody's drugged the water. Doesn't matter-he takes back what he said about the pity-hit. No pity for the mime.

The mime moves forward, movements exaggerated in traditional mime-fashion, and he wonders where the hell his guns have gone WAIT A MINUTE IS THAT A SWORD?

It is.

Fucking. Gotham.

"Do you know who I am?" It's a long shot, but maybe this is some hired sucker who'll book it once they realize who they've come to kill. (That's why they're here, right? It has to be.)

The mime nods, once, and **oh**. Damn.

If this asshole gets him evicted, he's going to be royally pissed.

The mime draws the sword-a sword, what the hell, come **on** -and Jason reaches behind him for something, anything.

He comes up with a butter knife. It'll do. He can ram it through an eyeball.

The mime darts forward, exaggerated movements left behind, and swings the sword. Jason ducks.

He would like it to be known that that anime-noise, when a sharp object narrowly misses somebody's head in slow-mo, is real. **The noise is real.**

The horrific clatter of his coffee maker hitting the floor is also real and you know what, he doesn't care how much effort it's gonna be getting rid of the body. If he has to chop the fucker up in the shower, so be it. He will avenge his coffee maker-

**SLICE!**

The tip of the sword goes through his shirt and he feels it scrape against his skin before he tilts backwards and kicks the bastard's legs out from under them. The mime crashes to the ground, sword hopping from white-gloved fingers and scuffing the floor. Fuck-

Oh, well. Google will help him fix that later.

He tackles the mime before it can go for the sword and his hand's **just** brushing against the hilt when something hard presses against his head and there's a familiar **click.**

If somebody kills him with his own guns, he's going to resurrect out of spite. Sheer, unadulterated spite because **how dare they.**

"I would've made sandwiches if you'd called ahead."

Whoever has the gun moves so it's against the side of his head. He can now see black boots and black leggings.

"Awful close...afraid you'll miss?"

"Shut up."

He tightens his fingers around the butter knife. Time slows.

Two things happen almost at the same time. One, the butter knife finds a new home in the soft spot behind Black Boots' kneecap. Two, the resulting pain has him cursing, doubling over, and dropping the gun.

The gun goes off. Mime is...no longer a mime.

Jason swipes for the gun and Black Boots tackles him. They hit the floor and a second later there's an angry pounding below. Broom handle. Downstairs neighbor.

Sorry, Pipes McFlexy*, he'll make it up to you when he's not being murdered.

Probably.

He flips them over, butter knife driving further into Black Boots' leg, and scrambles to his feet.

Okay, they gotta get outta here. He's not cleaning two corpses off his floor. One's enough.

He grips Black Boots' shirt and hauls him onto the porch, ignoring the hissing and attempts at clutching the knifed leg. Dumbass.

"I don't **like** chopping heads, y'know." he says, hefting the bastard up so he's half-over the cheap railing. "It's not **fun**. Come on, man, you didn't really think-"

His phone rings. Black Boots has the audacity to **laugh** at him.

In Jason's experience, laughing murderers are always, always a bad sign.

"You might want to answer that."

The Bad-Sign-Feeling intensifies.

He shoves Black Boots over the railing, cringing a little when he gets impaled on the decoratively spikey fence below (ahh, those days when Park Row thought it was a Nice Neighborhood...) and fishes his phone out of his pocket.

"Hey, babe."

"Cocky little shit." Some people consider that a plus. "How's it going tonight, Red Riding Hood?"

That's a Thing now? Come on!

"I **was** about to enjoy a nice bubble bath, glass of wine, maybe a one-on-one with Stormy Daniels..."

Deadpan silence comes over the phone. Jason leans over the railing and eyes the bloody wrought-iron spike below. He thinks that might be an intestine on it.

"Laugh it up, chuckles." Sionis does not sound like he's even thinking about laughing. "Boys, c'mere. I got someone on the phone that wants to talk to our guest."

Guest. What guest. (Is it Bruce? Bruce is SOL.)

It is not Bruce. Two things reach his ears. One is Lisa Giles' voice, screaming.

Two is the very unmistakable sound of a bone saw.

And then Sionis hangs up on him.

 

 

 

*Not real name. **Obviously.**

 

 


	63. Theatrics (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y'know how kinda early on, Jason just tackles you like an angry flying squirrel, shoots you, and leaves? Uh. What were you doing up there, Jay? Playing Pet Rescue? Jeeze.
> 
> You'll thank me for this in the very near future. Happy February!

"Uh. Why's the boss in the vents."

"What?" Antoine steps away from the computer to press his com more firmly against his ear. "What's going on?"

"The boss is just hanging out in the vents in the tunnels."

God, he hates rookies...

"It's nothing, Private, he does that."

"Why? Is he stuck? Do we need to get him down?"

Antoine hopes to God the boss isn't paying any attention.

"No. Why are you pestering me?"

"You're less scary."

This is what being nice gets him, apparently. Fantastic. Someone kill him. Or maim him, even, that's fine. It'll get everyone else to leave him alone...

Oh, hey, is that Batman-nope, never mind, it's a fucking seagull.

"Hang on." He switches channels. "Boss, you're not bleeding out or anything, are you?"

The irritation is palpable even over the line.

"No. Why."

"The guys are worried because you're, uh..." The real answer is probably **sulking** , but a little diplomacy never hurt. "Quiet. And in the vents."

"Batman's on his way."

That is not an answer.

"Okay, boss."

"It's **tactical**."

Ah, the word the Knight likes to use when he really means, 'dramatic as fuck'.

"Okay, boss."

"Not one word, Drouot."

"I didn't say anything, boss."

"You **thought** something."

Oh, come on!

"I didn't-I think I hear the car."

"The car is **here**."

Shit. Uh. Desperate times and all.

He only feels a little bad for making a 'SHRRRRR SHRRRRR' noise that, if one feels imaginative, resembles a bad connection.

"I can't hear you, sir, somethin's up with the coms-"

"You are the worst goddamn liar in this army-"

Yeah. Yeah, probably. Oh, well.

"I'll get back to you, lemme try and-SHRRRR SHRRRR-you're breakin'-"

**"Really?"**

He switches back.

"He's fine. Batman's on his way, that's all."

That leads to all-new scrambling. Whatever. This has ceased to be Antoine's problem. It's a freeing feeling.

He heads onto the observation deck, a bag of nuts in hand-can't fight Batman if you're hungry!-and tosses one into the air to catch.

Y'know, from up here, away from the crime, Gotham's a pretty city. Lotta lights, lotta shiny metal buildings...Antoine's always liked the look of a real big-city skyline. And from up here, it's almost peaceful.

A seagull flies by, snatches the nut out of the air, and circles back. Before he can do anything, that bastard bird has taken his snack and flown away, doing that stupid gull-laugh they all do when they've robbed you.

This city can get fucked.

THE END

 

 


	64. Masks, Pt. 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOME STREEEEETCH. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for, ah, violence. Which. Let's be real, here, if y'all survived that one story of mine with the milkshake, it's not that bad.

Jason's initial idea is go outside and start blowing up warehouses until somebody tells him everything he wants to know.

But that's not the smart plan. He knows that. It's just...it would maybe lessen the guilt. This. This is why he doesn't make nice with that many people. Because that's how people get hurt.

**Head in the game, Jason. Guilt later. Rescue now.**

He moves through his apartment, gathering grenades and bullets and a few spare knives because knives will be there for you when your guns jam and your grenades are gone.

As much as it kills him not to just start tearing through every possible location, he brings up the location for the dinosaur. Either Sionis is there, or Jason can use it as leverage. Well. At least until Lisa's well-being (she's fine, no way did that fucker hang up on him when he could have made him listen to the end) is assured. Then it's going **boom**.

The dinosaur's been moved. It's sitting, now, in the underground parking garage of Sionis Industries (or what's left of it, anyway), which as good a place to start as any.

* * *

So it isn't **strictly** necessary to leave the main guards hanging above the door in a sort of corpse-banner, but it ensures he won't trip on them later and if backup arrives, they'll know what they're in for and (hopefully) turn around and go home.

Besides, he saw Li get here around the same time he did, and they need to **talk**.

The elevator's broken, which means he can just grapple up to an appropriate landing and wait for her to reach it. Heels are not good for stairs, apparently. Bummer.

She doesn't see him until she's pinned against the wall via a knife to the shoulder, and by then it's way, way too late.

"Hi." Her teeth are moving against his glove, but he has no idea if she's screaming or trying to bite him. It doesn't matter anyway. "I have some follow-up questions. You can answer, and the pain will stop. Or you can be stubborn, and I get to do this." He wiggles the knife downwards a centimeter or two, slicing through flesh and the obscenely expensive jacket, and yup, she's screaming. There's that answered. "Which sounds more fun?"

No answer. Well. No attempt at an understandable answer, just tears and a raw braying vibration against his palm.

"Thing is with shoulder wounds, they won't kill you outright. But man, do they **hurt**." He waggles the knife back and forth and her eyes slide backwards. "Tell me where your boss is keeping a little girl, 'bout eight years old, and I make it stop."

"Nngh-"

"Come on, I know you know. Ballpark, at least. Is she in this building?" Heavy nodding that Jason thinks would be frantic if it could be. "Great! See, this isn't so bad. What floor?" No answer this time. He puts a little more pressure on the knife, feels the tip slipping and grinding against the brick wall when he does. **"What. Floor."**

The noise she makes is unintelligible and he moves his glove.

"S-six. Sixth floor, **please-** "

"Thank you."

He drags the knife down towards her hip, slicing a bloody strip off her body like the gyro maker does with his meat wheel. She'll bleed out in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

Well. He did promise to make the pain stop. And unlike **some** people in this town, he keeps his promises.

* * *

After checking to make sure the dinosaur is, indeed, present and turned off (or at least, uh...hibernating or whatever), he makes his way to the sixth floor. Li was telling the truth, judging by the crying (scared crying, not pained shrieking, Lisa's probably mostly okay).

He's not surprised. Being pinned to the wall with a pointy object tends to make people real honest.

Okay. One little skeleton (no shattered or missing limbs, that's great), two big skeletons with guns, one...kinda big...skeleton with what appears to be a coffee cup.

He hopes the coffee inside is hot and some sorta iced unicorn bullshit. It would be fitting to take the fucker down with his own caffeine.

There's no window to the room, which is annoying, and even more annoying is that there's no vent. Well, technically there is, but it's tiny and there's no way he can get in there.

**Fucking modern buildings...hope the designer never needs an emergency rescue...**

Oh, well. If he can get at least one gunman out of action, he can probably take the other two. Ahh, time to fall back on Ye Olde Robin Training-attract the guy with the gun!*

He ducks around the corner unholsters one of his guns, and fires at the melty remains of a water pipe. He catches a hissed, "Fuck, shut her up-" before Lisa's crying stops abruptly. A quick check says the little skeleton is still alive. Gagged, then. Fine.

Well? That was a gunshot, you overpaid bastards, aren't ya gonna come see? He doesn't wanna keep wasting bullets because you're too scared to come out here and say hi.

There's muffled bickering and finally, **finally** Gunman One gets shoved into the hall. That's right, come to Daddy...

He's nervous, this one. Jason mentally adds one twitchy trigger finger to his reaction time. Come on, come on, just a little closer...

Close enough.

He shoots him in the leg and tackles him, clapping a hand over his mouth and dragging him around the corner.

"You're going to tell them you hit me." he hisses, spare hand gripping his jaw where it'll be easy to break if he disagrees. "Got it?"

A shaky nod and huffed gasps. Jason risks moving his hands off his face.

"I-I got 'im!" It's shaky and weak and a little whiny, but he does have a bullet in his...thigh, apparently. Just to be safe, though, he gives him a little shake and nods in what he hopes comes across as a 'sell it'. "I'll be right back, I'm just gonna m-mm-make sure e's down!"

"You got it!"

Good.

Then, before he can tense up and make this harder than it needs to be, he snaps his neck and tucks him against the wall so no one trips over him later.

One down, two to go.

He pulls a flash grenade out of one the pockets on his belt and weighs his options. He'd like to get out of this without overly traumatizing Lisa-or getting one of them killed-but he doubts he'll be able to get the other two out here, not now. He'll just have to be quick, hope the smoke and confusion hides the worst of it, and lie like a cheap rug and say, 'yup, they're just...really, really asleep'.

Maybe he'll be lucky and she'll be blindfolded.

He makes his way down the hall, eyes peeled for snipers and booby traps. Nothing, which is suspicious in and of itself, but oh well.

Now that he's closer, he can hear Lisa crying again despite the gag. Fuckers.

"Where the fuck is Steve?"

"Who cares-I told you to shut her up!"

That doesn't bode well.

He kicks the door open and drops the grenade. There's a sudden flare of light and then a shit-ton of smoke, and then coughing and the sounds of scared confusion.

Perfect.

He goes for Gunman Two first, jerks the shotgun out of his hands and clubs him with it just so he can duck Coffee Cup's wild haymaker.

"Shit-!"

Lying like a cheap rug is no longer an option.

He shoots Coffee Cup in the head, mentally plans to blame Gunman Two for it, and kicks the other man at just the right spot to snap his head back with a nasty **CRACK!**

And now everything's quiet.

The smoke is not clearing, not in this small space, and it's easier to pick up the chair Lisa's tied to and carry it out. It's better this way, makes it so she might not see things she shouldn't.

"All right, kiddo, you're okay, we're gonna get you home." The gag's got weird stains on it and he grimaces, wishes he kept a water bottle on him. He does, at least, have a pack of Jolly Ranchers for this kinda thing, and after a quick looks says yup, she's got some cuts 'n bruises but nothing serious, he fishes it out and asks, "Want one?"

She nods, face still red and streaked with tears, and he waits for her to dig through until she finds a blue one.

"You okay?" She looks okay-doesn't look like she's been badly redressed or anything (luckily for whoever's left in this building), but looks can be deceiving. She nods, though, cheeks sucked around the candy, and then flings her arms around his neck. "Okay, kid, I gotcha, you're gonna be okay, we're gonna go home, huh?"

"They were in my closet."

What-oh.

That's...really, really creepy, actually...but that's Gotham for you. He's hidden in his share of empty rooms.

But that's **different**.

"They won't be back in there, I promise. You want me to carry you?" She nods and he does a quick check to make sure that's not going to be dangerous. It's not-there's a few people upstairs, but the only figures showing up nearby are, uh...sleeping. "Okay."

'Carry' apparently translates to 'ride on shoulders', and he's gonna **feel** that later, but one, she's not crying and panicking and two, he has yet to be able to tell a kid 'no' when they want a ride. Fuck you, they have mind control powers or something.

"Mister Red?"

They'll be taking the stairs. It gives him a better shot at not grappling into an ambush, and gives him a look at the upper levels, at least a little.

"Yeah?"

"What'd they want?"

"I don't know, kid." FUCK, Li's still here, uh...maybe one little grapple, just to the next landing. "Hold on, okay? You got a good grip?"

She wraps her arms around his helmet, which isn't great for visibility, but it's not blinding.

Crisis averted. Ten points to Ravenclaw...something's off. What's off, what's wrong...

Oh.

Oh, dear.

"Mister Red?"

"You're gonna have to get down, kiddo." Where is it, where is it, it's still in the goddamn building-

He turns around, intending to shove her towards the door, and **there** it is.

Or. There they are, more accurately-Black Mask, in all his creepy glory, and the fucking dinosaur.

Which now has glowing eyes.

"Mo-int chocolate chip."

"Motherfucker."

"Language," he says, out of habit because Alfred would murder him for letting little kids swear, "but yeah. Pretty much."

 

 

 

***That's the real reason B had us dressed up as stoplights. I was there. I know things.**

 

 


	65. Masks, Pt. 25

AN: Jason Todd, everybody: resident badass, determinator, awkward turtle.

**I take offense to that last one.**

Oh, but it's true.

**...I...I want to protest, but...**

Yeah. You know it, I know it, they know it.

One of my wisdom teeth is coming in, so the gum's swollen and biteable, which means I have to keep my mouth kinda open like some sorta slack-jawed idiot, and my mouth is a JERK apparently because it thinks now's a GREAT time to spawn a canker sore RIGHT. THERE. And I have laryngitis-causing allergies because of course I do. The bitterness is real, guys. You don't even know.

* * *

"You're predictable, kid." Sionis says easily. Jason's only half-listening. The warehouse door's closed and chained shut and the dinosaur's blocking the way out anyway. If it was just him, he could work around that, but Lisa's eight-really eight, not Bruce-trained eight-and that's not an option.

"Shut your eyes and don't breathe."

"Huh-"

He drops a flash grenade and swings them to the rafters, and then into the elevator car that's still hanging in the shaft. It's stuck, and it's not ideal, but it's out of the line of fire and difficult for Sionis to get to. In theory.

Lisa's coughing but not, like, choking to death. It'll wane. He hands over the bag of Jolly Ranchers and his phone.

"Okay, kid, I want you to stay here, call the police, and then be **quiet**. Okay? Can you do that for me?"

"What's going on?"

"I'm gonna make it so I can get us outta here. Okay? It's gonna be fine."

"You **promise?** "

That's not fair.

"Yeah. Call the police, then stay quiet and I'll be back to get you when it's safe."

She just looks at him with big watery eyes and he's starting to panic when she latches onto him, little fingers (fuck, was he ever this small?) twisting into his jacket.

"S'gonna be okay, kid." Y'know. Probably. "Just do what I said, I'll be back for you when it's safe."

He'd leave her the jacket-it's a little cold in here-if it didn't have half his gear in it. Oh, well. He grapples back out of the elevator-and right back to Sionis' bitchy mocking. He's got that tone that people get when they've played a boss fight too many times. It'd be funny if he weren't carrying a machine gun.

Dinosaur first. Clearly he's not gonna get to keep it.

"You just don't learn, do ya?" Okay, his electrical surprise **probably** isn't going to shut the thing down. He's gonna have to pull a Black Widow and glitch it at just the right time instead, go from there. And hope for the best. A lotta hoping for the best. "Christ, kid, I thought for sure this wouldn't work after last time..."

And he's gonna have to get that machine gun.

He never thought he'd say this, but he really hopes the cops get here soon...

Sionis is sticking close to the dinosaur, not so close that he might get stepped on, but close enough. At least it hasn't-

There's a high-pitched mechanical whine and he **knows** that noise. Sensors picking up something that shouldn't be there.

Shit-

He vacates his rafter just as the dinosaur comes charging for it, footsteps rattling the ground and making a few nearby cars bounce. Sionis fires-misses, but fires-and Jason rolls under a car at the far end of the lot. Well. Apparently it can 'see', at least a little.

He was so hoping it was all remote-control...

"You know why I bought this thing off'a that bottle-eyed bastard, kid?" No. "To take your ass out. So c'mon, be a man and say hi."

Distractedly, Jason's annoyed that he worried about hapless civilians for nothing.

His helmet informs him that, like most mechanical items, the dinosaur has a sweet spot. Unfortunately, said sweet spot is at the back of the mouth, past two rows of sharp teeth and what Jason will bet is a powerful bite.

Okay. So he needs to zap it when its mouth is open and toss a grenade in there.

And also not get shot.

The dinosaur stills in the middle of the parking garage, head moving back and forth. He should be below the sensors, he's gotta be.

"Y'know, Joker said you were gonna be **useful** , kid." He's not listening. He's not listening. "Said he was gonna fix you up and point you at the Bat, not fuck you up so bad you run around killing the rest of us." He's not listening. "Guess that's what I get for listening to the guy with fifty tubes of cherry red lipstick...oh, well."

He's got one shot at this. The rex could be glitched for two seconds to two minutes, and he **cannot mess this up.**

He inches out on the other side of the car, swings up to a rickety light fixture, and unclips a grenade. Holding it loosely in one hand, he takes the detonator for the dinosaur out of his jacket and takes a deep breath.

"You gonna talk all day or are you gonna do something?"

The rex roars (intimidation mode?) and Jason mashes the button. There's a nasty **ZZZZT!** and sparks before it freezes, jaw hanging open.

**Now.**

He drops the detonator, yanks the pin out of the grenade, and swings across the garage. A few bullets whiz by his jacket. He's just throwing the grenade into the hollow mouth when the head jerks.

And grabs him out of the air.

Pain turns his vision to white and

**God no please stop stop you gotta lemme go please it hurts m'sorry BATMAN-!**

and there's hot metal crushing his armor and his ribs and

**Make it stop please make it stop it hurts-**

Not Joker not a vice but hurts just as bad he can't breathe-

Distantly, he hears a boom.

And he drops. Hits the cement hard enough to crack his helmet in two, pieces falling to the floor around his head. Above him, there's cursing and the groaning of metal. He should move, he has to get out of here, but something's broken, something **bad** , and he still can't breathe.

He might hear sirens in the distance. Or it might be the warning of the machine above him, a last-ditch 'GET OUT THE WAY' as the metal gives way to its weight.

It folds in on itself, legs crumpling like pop cans, and finally hits the ground, head crushing a car and vibrations sending whitening agony through his torso.

**Get UP, Robin!**

He wants to, he's never disobeyed Bruce when he sounds like that, but he can barely keep his eyes-

"-n of a bitch!"

Maybe Sionis doesn't see him? He just needs a few seconds, tha's all, promise...

Promise. He promised. Promised Lisa he'd get her home, he s-said he would 'n he's never lied 'bout somethin' like that, he can't...

"You sorry motherfucker!" There's the sound of a trunk being popped and he forces his eyes open, or tries to. Sionis is nowhere to be seen. His machine gun is lying half-under the dinosaur's leg-probably dropped in an effort to not be crushed. At least there's-

**WHAM-CRACK!**

He chokes on a newly-broken rib, catches a glimmer of metal before whatever it is slams against his knee.

"You know the difference between me and the clown, kid?" No no you're both grinning bastards and this hurts **please** \- "I don't believe in Plan J's and brainwashing." **WHAM!** "I believe in good, old-fashioned payback. And you have fucked up enough of my operation."

Sticky (bloody?) metal brushes gently against his jaw, tilting his head. He tries to pull away, to lift his hands, to do **something** , and can't.

"Bummer he had to go and ruin the merch, though." **Ruined ruined is right Robin doesn't kill Bruce won't want me back now god please somebody help me-** "Could'a made some money off'a ya..." The metal leaves, lets his head fall back, brand pressing against the cold floor. "Eh, you'd probably be a liability."

Gun. He's got a gun, his little emergency one-tiny, Agatha Christie Murderess-style. S'in an inner pocket of his jacket, f'he can just-

He swallows, forces his hand to come up in what could be a plea for mercy, and lets it fall across his chest, fingers buried in the leather. His fingers brush against the handle of the gun for half a second before Sionis hauls him up by his collar, fabric and fist bunched at his throat. Jason chokes at the movement, ribs screaming, and tries to squirm loose. Sionis laughs and drags him across the floor, tosses him against the wall. He slides to the floor, blinks and tries to get the room to stop spinning, but all that happens is that Sionis leans over him, grinning skull inches from his face, and rasps, "You're not lookin' too hot, kid."

"N-neither are you."

He pays for that one when Sionis swings the metal-crowbar, he can see that now, fuck you too, sunshine-against the hot patch on his side. Things go white,

**M'I dead?**

only coming back when the crowbar is hooked under his head, pulling it up. He can't breathe and the only coherent thought is, **Not again not again NOT AGAIN.**

**Get up, Robin.**

**Fuck you, old man.**

Okay. Okay, he...he said. Said he'd get Lisa outta here in one piece. So that's what's gonna happen, come hell or high water.

"Please..." It's not hard to stay limp, neck pressing against the crook of the crowbar. "S-stop..."

Sionis laughs and jerks the crowbar back, letting his head fall back to the tiles. The coughing and groan of pain are real and **god** , it hurts to breathe, hurts to **blink**.

"Ya shoulda learned to take a hint, kid."

"Please..."

If he can just get him to relax his grip on the crowbar...

C'mon, Jay, pathetic, death's fucking door.

Sionis' knuckles are still tight-there's no way Jason can get it from him now. Not like this. He's not sure this is even gonna work, but it's the best he can come up with.

"But nooo, you had to come stickin' your nose in where it didn't belong, and now look at ya, huh?" Sionis moves, crouches down near Jason's head. "Gonna make an example outta ya, kid. I don't take kindly to busybodies." He stands up abruptly, gives Jason's boot an experimental kick. "Your hood on my wall should do it. Maybe make a sweater out of what's left."

The knuckles are a little looser. If he'd just come over, just a bit closer...

Maybe he can make that happen.

"M's-s..."

Sionis cocks his head-Jason presumes he's frowning-but doesn't move.

"Speak up, kid."

"Mm..."

Come on, come on, come over here, he could be saying something worth gloating over. There could be begging, for fuck's sake!

He forces a deep breath in-pain, so much pain-and moves like he's going to sit up. That does it-Sionis steps over and Jason goes limp again. The crowbar's dangling against the tiles, inches from his fingertips.

"Please..."

"Bit late for that."

"Please, just...just shut up."

He grabs for the crowbar, feels smooth metal against his fingers. Sionis reels back, ripping it out of his hand, and that's all he needs-the space to get his hand inside his jacket-

-and around the handle of the gun.

The crowbar comes down, aiming for his elbow, but he's got a quicker finger than Sionis does a swing.

**BLAM!**

The thing about white. The thing, s'that it shows bloodstains like nobody's business. And Sionis' white suit is already poppy-red by the time the crowbar hits the ground.

Then his vision's black.

* * *

The world comes back into hazy focus. His breath's rattling in his throat and his side's warm. Wet, still, and he should probably worry, but...why bother?

Hazy focus snaps to sharp clarity when Lisa yanks on his arm, whispering, "Mr. Red? Wake up, you gotta wake up, you said we were gonna go home."

Ow.

Wait.

She was...he'd stuck her...

"Mr. Red!"

Shit. She sounds scared, he should probably stop doing an impression of a dead man.

"M'okay, kiddo." That's what he means to say, but he's not sure if that's what comes out-his tongue doesn't want to move. "Gimme a minute."

She stops pulling and he hears her sit down beside him. Okay. He can do this, he's okay, time to get up.

He forces his eyes to unstick and looks at the ceiling. There's...there's two. Two ceilings. 'Kay.

He blinks a few times, forces himself to breathe, and the two ceilings become one and a half.

"Mr. Red?"

"M'okay. Just a little knocked around." God, he's not okay, this hurts, this really hurts. "You okay? How'd you get outta th'..." He gulps, fingers flexing against the cement (his blood Sionis' doesn't matter s'sticky 'n warm), and tries again. "Th' elevator?"

"It turned on."

Couple'a scratches. She's fine.

There's light's now, the overheads, not the shitty floodlamps that had been down here before, and there's a harsh humming that he doubts is entirely in his head. Emergency generator?

"Okay. We're gonna go home now."

Hopefully. In theory.

Sitting up proves to be really, really hard, but it's not like he hasn't had worse. Technically. Still. Ow. He can safely say that 'attacked by a robotic tyrannosaur' is a first for him. _Jurassic Park_ has suddenly become a little less entertaining. Fucker.

Okay. Halfway there. He can do this. If nothing else, he really doesn't want to be responsible for traumatizing Lisa by dying.

**Die on your own time, Jason, you got shit to do today.**

He's. He's had worse, recovered from worse, he's okay. Even though glancing down says that's definitely a bite pattern. Probably the only reason he hasn't lost a fuck-ton of blood is because the armor's crushed into his skin.

"You don't look so good."

"M'fine." he says, knowing he neither sounds nor looks it. "Ready to go home?"

She nods, wide-eyed, and he levers himself up the rest of the way. Oh, boy. Dizzy. Very dizzy. But he's vertical, and it'll do.

He puts a hand on the wall to keep himself upright, forces a few deep breaths into his lungs. He's okay. He's okay, he's gonna get her home like he promised.

"Mr. Red?"

"Let's get outta here, kiddo."

She fists his jacket and stares up at him. Yeah, he probably doesn't look too good. Tends to be a side effect of crowbars, he's found. He forces what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

The police have surrounded the building. Shit. A scan of the crowds says Gordon is here, and that gives him an idea.

"All...all right, kid." he says, and **fuck** , standing's becoming harder by the second. "There's a...friend...of mine, over there, his name's Commissioner Gordon. I'm gonna leave you with him, he's gonna get you home."

"You promise?"

"Made it this far, didn't we?"

"Okay."

He will regret this in the morning, guaranteed, but he picks her up anyway and heads out through the broken skylight. There's no shouting and no gunfire and it's really only a hop, skip and a jump to the back of the throng outside of the museum. His landing's not great and Gordon turns around, jaw clenching around his pipe.

"Who's- **Robin?** "

No.

Gordon's always been nice to him, though, used to give him candy (wouldn't share his cigarettes, the stingy bastard), and he's honestly more interested in staying upright than he is in giving a damn.

"Hey, Commish." He sets Lisa down and tries to hide his sudden bout of light-headedness with a step back. "S. S'safe to go in."

Gordon squints at him suspiciously and says, "You don't look so good, son."

This was a bad idea.

He fixes his eyes on a random point over Gordon's shoulder and says, as cockily as he can manage, "Hey, big Bat."

That does it-Gordon turns around fast and Jason takes the opening to grapple to the nearest rooftop. This time his landing's complete shit-he stumbles to his hands and knees, trembling and not sure whether he wants to puke or pass out.

But like. Like **hell** is he gonna die on some grimy rooftop. Not today.

The journey could take minutes or hours. He can't tell. S'all a blur of traffic lights. He trips through his window eventually, though, stumbles into his bathroom, and manages to get the light on with bloody, shaking fingers before finally collapsing on the cold tiles.

He's been here before, hasn't he? Cold tiles, hot blood. All that's missing is laughter. S'kinda funny, really. Maybe he was always meant to die like this.

There's worse ways to go, he thinks, as blackness swallows the twinkling florescent gleam. But...

**Bruce, m'sorry.**

 

 


	66. Masks, Pt. 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of Antoine being liked by y'all (I'm glad! He'd like you all to stop laughing at him, though. Gotham was TRAUMATIZING. He can't walk under balconies at night anymore. :p), I have gone back and labelled the Militia Fics for ease of access.

AN: There exists a Funko package thing with…the Joker…and…Robin. Really.

**That's not at all subtle. Fuckers.**

May whomever had that idea have a sinus infection on Thanksgiving.

**I was hoping for a ripped-off nail, minimum, but that'll do.**

* * *

_Jason's six, and he and Mom are in the bathroom with the door locked. Willis is outside, stumbling and screaming, and Jason's kinda wondering why he doesn't just break down the door but not wanting to bring it up in case he just hasn't thought of it. Mom's holding him and her arms are so, so thin but Jason doesn't care, she's not letting go and he's safe._

_The kaleidoscope shifts and Willis and Mom and the bathroom fall away in rainbow shards and now Jason's ten. He's sick and homeless because Mom's gone and tonight he's sitting in what'll be one'a Penguin's clubs. Dove Marquis is sitting across from him, and he can't hear her but he knows she's saying he's safe for the night. He believes her._

_Everything falls again and he feels himself being built up to thirteen, coming down off his first fear toxin trip and terrified that Bruce'll get rid of him for fucking up. But Bruce is there, an awkward hulk of_ _**there are EMOTIONS in this room someone help me** _ _, trying to reassure him_ _**no no don't be silly, Jay-lad, I'll always come and get you, I promise** _ _. Jason believes him, will always believe him._

_He doesn't believe him at sixteen, bleeding on Arkham's dirty floor, and the shock of betrayal_ _**hurts** _ _, it hurts so much because_ _**you said you'd come you said Dad where are you?** _ _Not here, not here because he's fucked up too much this time 'n he's not worth it 'n he's gonna die down here, forgotten, 'n it's what he deserves…_

_Twenty, sprawled on his bed and not caring whether he lives or dies because_ _**fuck** _ _this hurts…_

_"_ _Shh, Jay."_

_"_ _B?" No, no, Bruce isn't here, he doesn't care, he didn't come…_

_"_ _Go back to sleep." A cool washcloth moves across his face and neck and at some point a straw jabs between his lips, followed by a soft, "Sorry."_

_Doesn't matter, he's just…he's just…_

_"_ _B."_

_The washcloth settles on his forehead and he feels water trickle into his hair and down to his jaw. Then he passes out._

* * *

Jason wakes, slowly and in pain, snippets of dreams still swirling in his head. All things considered, he could be worse. He's not dead, and at some point he apparently managed to haul himself off the tiles and onto his bed, so…

His side hurts. Everything hurts, but his side especially. He guesses that's what happens when a robotic T-Rex bites you.

He must've given himself stitches, because there's a neat black row of them running up his skin, but he can't remember. Last thing he **can** remember is collapsing on the bathroom tiles and passing out.

Maybe…

"Bruce?" He hates how weak his voice sounds, how fucking desperate, but…maybe he hadn't been dreaming, maybe this time… "S'that you?"

No answer. Of course no answer. S'just a dream, like all the others.

He closes his eyes and throws an arm over his face, half-wishing this'll be like one of those stupid Disney Channel movies and that Bruce'll come back in from getting the mail or something. Fuck, he must be out of it. Maybe he has a fever or something.

What day is it?

He needs a drink. There's a glass by his bed like always, but it's empty and he resigns himself to having to get up and get something.

His phone's there too, and he picks it up, fully expecting it to be dead. It isn't. Full charge, and it's-a **week**? He's been out a week? **Fuck** , how is he not dead, what the hell, what the hell…

He sucks in a shaky breath and pulls himself out of bed and towards the bathroom. The mirror says he looks like shit.

The water's stale and gross because bathroom tap water is always, somehow, worse than regular (and he shouldn't be drinking it because this is Gotham but he doesn't care he's **parched** ). But he drains two glasses of it anyway and takes a closer look at the stitches.

They're good-small and even-and the skin around them isn't a red, puffy mess. The thermometer says no fever, but its location says someone was here or is here. It doesn't live on the left side of the medicine cabinet, it lives on the right.

**Bruce?**

Bruce is exactly the sort of asshole to put things back on the wrong side of the medicine cabinet. And it could be remnants of an ugly past week talking, but he's really, really starting to think Bruce **was** here, for some reason. Maybe Alfred guilted him…

He doesn't think he likes this very much.

His head hurts and his stomach feels uncomfortably empty. Fuck Bruce. When he went out last week, he had applesauce in the pantry. Unless **somebody** else ate it, it should still be there.


	67. Masks, Pt. 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y'know how sometimes, in the LEGO games, the NPC will freak and attack you? Yeah. I'm playing as Jason, minding my own business, and something keeps hitting me. I finally track down the problem...and it's Batman. NPC partner Batman is stuck in 'throw Batarang' mode and apparently thinks we should reenact the climax of Under the Red Hood. Come on, man. It's LEGO. It's supposed to be trauma-free.

Jason's happy to continue his existence of 'Bats don't exist'. The universe feels differently.

He's settled by his favorite gargoyle-good vantage point, and one of the few things that hasn't changed at all since he...left...with a bag of McDonald's fries, watching the traffic below. The shadow that looms over him would unsettle other people. He knows better.

"What do you want, old man?"

The gargoyle's good for this kind of situation-it puts a bit of a barrier between him and anyone else on the roof, and he can easily launch himself to another rooftop-or to the alley below-with minimal risks of being reeled in like a fish.

The shadow is silent. Jason shrugs, fishes out another fry, and moves so the gargoyle's (Darcy, its name is Darcy) boney knee isn't digging into **just** the wrong part of his shoulder.

"Most people are creeped out by strange men in costumes looming over them, y'know."

Grudging amusement radiates from the shadow. Then, "You shouldn't be out."

He knows that. But he also knows that if he lets enough people get a look at him, they won't start to think they can get away with shit. That's all he's out for. And it's been effective-two guys following a woman had caught a glimpse of the helmet and gone into the nearest bar instead. He'd hung out for a bit, made sure they didn't try to 'help' a drunk person home, but they'd just parked themselves at a table. Alone.

"I'm fine." And then, because it's not good that Darcy has more emotions than the actual, living man up there, "Not like you have to care."

Exasperation this time. If he doesn't breathe, he can make out the flapping of the cape.

"You nearly died."

"That's nothing new."

"Jason-"

Whatever.

He finishes his last fry, scrunches the bag up to throw out later, and straightens up. Wonders, a little, if Bruce would catch him if he stepped into the air and plummeted towards the cars below.

Decides he doesn't wanna find out.

"Sorry, Bruce. That grave'll have to stay empty for another day."

And then, because some part of him is always going to be the kid that lives to give the adults around him a heart attack, he steps towards the traffic, grappling up at the last possible second (he'll pay for that later, that hurt kinda bad) and drops into the alley across the street, where his bike is currently hiding.

Bruce doesn't follow. He pretends that doesn't bother him.

The sun's starting to threaten its presence, grey-tinged fingers grasping the harsh steel of the business district, and he figures it's time to get home.

It's been a long night.

 

 


	68. Epilogue (Masks)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't gonna, but that poor bartender just stuck with me. I think she's gonna be listed in my files as either Scary Bartender or Buttmonkey Bartender. Sorry, girl.
> 
> The last bit of this story's soundtrack is now on 8tracks! We're done!

Ahh. Finally. Her shift is over, the bar is mostly restored (a few scuffs here 'n there, but she's left 'em, for character's sake) and she can go home and have a nice bubble bath.

She's sitting at a stoplight now, drumming along to some Death Cab For Cutie song, when there's a screech from above.

That's all the warning she gets before **something** slams into the hood of her car, crushing it like a cheap pop can.

**What the fuck?**

The airbag goes off. Thankfully, her seat's shoved back far enough that it she misses the worst of it, which means she can shove the door open and poke her head out to see what's going on.

**THAT MOTHERFUCKER-**

One of the things on her car-well, near it, now-is that red-helmeted bastard. The other thing...she doesn't know, and she doesn't care. It looks like it has moth's wings, which is kinda creepy, but it's not looking at her.

It rolls off her car-her utterly **ruined** car, her baby-and shoots what looks like webbing at Red Asshole. Sadly, he gets out of the way and returns fire. Across the street, a window breaks.

The thing vanishes into the sky and he's clearly about to follow when she shrieks, "YOU STOP RIGHT THERE!"

He doesn't even **look**.

"Leave your details on that phone booth, I'll be back to get 'em."

And then he's gone.

This. This, best beloved, is how supervillains are made.

THE END

 

 


	69. Black on Yellow, Kill a Fellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Crane is a combination of Nolan, Arkhamverse (mostly that glove, my god...), his Year One backstory, and my own...personal touch. Kitty Richardson is mine. Approach at your own risk.
> 
> Warnings for Jason's craptastic childhood...but it's fear toxin. It's not gonna send you to Disneyland.

Jason wakes up on his back, cold metal seeping through his cape and his wrists and ankles strapped down. Well, shit.

"-ld you it was a different one." Woman's voice, smug with the power of the **I Told You So**. "Not just a new costume."

"I beg for your forgiveness, Kitty." A man this time, exasperatedly fond. "I _grovel_." Laughter, and the rustling of clothes. "Though in my defense, your eyes are better than mine."

"Thank god yours are pretty, hm?" More laughter. "Oh, well...you owe me."

"And what might I owe you?"

"I have to think about it. Come back tomorrow."

Jason is somewhere between Confused as Shit and Very Alarmed. Whoever these people are, they know he's the second Robin and they...don't seem to care that Batman's probably en route right now to deliver a can of asskicking.

Crap.

Okay. He really can't do much of anything-the restraints feel like sturdy leather, and they're **tight** -he can maybe shift his wrists a little, but not enough to do anything. He's well and truly stuck here.

Great. He's dealing with professionals. This sucks.

Maybe he can just feign unconsciousness until Bruce gets here...

Silence. He's just considering cracking his eyes open to look at his surroundings when something that feels like a big bug brushes across his eyelids and cheekbones. He can't help the twitch, and now he's screwed.

"Rise and shine, little bird." He may as well see where he is, see if there's anything he can work with. "Wake up."

Fuck you, Rainbow Dash, he'll wake up on his own...time...

Oh, boy.

It's not a bug on his face, it's needles, four of 'em, all hanging off the creepily long fingers of Jonathan Crane. Crane himself is unmasked, but the glare from the overhead light makes his glasses shiny enough to be plenty unnerving on their own.

The room itself is small, and cement, with exactly two ways in-the door and a vent. No windows, no grates, no **nothing**. There's a medical cart on the other side of the room, and a bunch'a canisters that Jason will bet hold Crane's newest batch of crazy juice.

This just went from bad to catastrophic.

Kitty Richardson's leaning against the cart, watching him with an expression Jason can only label as **predatory**. He's read her files-Crane might be always looking for lab rats, but Richardson has an **automatic** dislike for Robin.

May as well earn it.

"Thought elves were s'posed ta make toys for all the good little boys 'n girls."

The needles pet his cheek. Richardson stills, eyes narrowing, before crossing the room in four quick steps, hands behind her back.

"You know, Jonathan, I dunno that these straps will hold him." Well, that's ominous. "I think we should take precautions."

The needles leave his face and Crane chuckles. It's not a nice sound.

"Well, it certainly can't hurt."

Richardson grips his shoulder, fingers moving deftly around the joint.

"Let's see...the last one had a weak spot right around...ah. Here we are."

She's not wrong, unfortunately-the suit's got weaknesses where he needs to be able to move rather than shuffle along like Frankenstein's monster. Whatever she wants, he's not just going to lie here and take it.

"Or did the Keebler tree burn down? S'that why you're all bitter now?"

"Funny." That's not a nice smile. "But typical."

He yanks against the restraints and the needles press warningly against his neck. A second later he sees what Richardson's got behind her back-a knife, which she plunges into his shoulder between the plates in his armor.

"Nngh-!"

He hears the muscles split and tear as the blade goes through, burrowing and twisting until the tip jabs against the skin and presses it tightly against the metal below.

"There we go. That's better." She ruffles his hair. "Any more smart remarks?"

"Screw you."

She laughs at him, flicks the knife's handle, and bends down so her lips are against his ear.

"I've got standards."

He tries to muster up the saliva to spit at her-it's his only defense-but she's moved back before he can. Crane looms over his head, one hand on the gurney, and rocks the whole thing gently back and forth. The knife sways, blade tipping and slicing sideways, and he tries not to throw up. He can't guarantee projectile vomit and he doesn't want to choke. Not here. Not from this.

But fuck, this hurts...

"You might be interesting." Crane says softly, needles fluttering gently over Jason's jaw. "I know that accent...you Alley brats are always such _**strong**_ reactors."

"Go to Hell."

"Shh." One of the needles taps his lips. "I've been. But you...tell me, child, how long have you been at this? Three months? And captured already? Tsk, tsk."

"I'm the." He swallows, tries to keep his voice steady and his body **still**. "The bait. Batman'll come, he'll kick your scrawny asses from 'ere ta next week, you'll see-"

"I'm expecting him." Liar. "But while we wait...what phantoms haunt your dreams, little bird? Your peers so often shriek about closed fists and thick, _**grasping fingers**_...are you the same?"

"I'm not scared'a you."

Crane smiles indulgently.

_**"Shh."** _

And then one of the needles, the one against his jugular, presses through his skin.

He can **feel** the stuff inside rip into his veins, hot and thick and acidic like bile, and he can't help but try to jerk free. That makes the knife shudder and **that** hurts, forces a whimper of agony through a tight throat.

**Not real not real not real it's not real whatever you see it's not it's not-**

_**"Pain always makes this work soooo much faster."**_ the Scarecrow hisses from above him, and he squeezes his eyes shut because one less sense is one less way for this shit to get to him. _**"The faster the pulse, the faster the effects..."**_

Breathe, then. Breathe deep, breathe even, on a count'a seven...c'mon...

The throbbing pain in his shoulder spreads suddenly and the pressure intensifies. His eyes fly open to see an imp-like one'a those things outta _Fantasia_ -pushing on the knife like it's a goddamn gear shift.

**Not real it's not real-**

Batman's gonna come he's gonna come and he'll fix this-

Mom's here. Mom's here but somethin's **wrong** she's all stiff 'n glassy-eyed like she was that...that last time he saw her, but-

**She's not here.**

She's propped against the wall, hands frozen by her chest and hooked into claws like they'd been. Been at the end. Her mouth's hanging open, just a little, just enough to see the gaps where her teeth fell out that last year, and he doesn't want this she used ta be healthy he tried to keep her that way, he did, honest-

**Mom I'm sorry I'm sorry I should'a been better I should'a tried harder-**

_**"Robins are songbirds."**_ Fingers close around his throat and he chokes, tries to twist away but Mom's starin' at him with that awful accusing look 'n- _**"So sing."**_

No. No, no, he won't he **won't** -

Mom moves, lurches forward, stringy, sweat 'n puke soaked hair flopping against her face, and he doesn't wanna see this he doesn't wanna remember her like this-

 _"Murderer."_ She coughs, yellow saliva dripping through chapped lips and down her chin, and he didn't mean to he tried honest he did- _"You ungrateful little brat."_

"Mom-"

She lurches closer, skeletal body slamming into the gurney. Clawed fingers

**I AM OZ THE GWEAT AND TEWWIBLE**

crack and the skin at her elbows splits as she forces her arms down to grasp his, death's chill seeping through his sleeves and into his skin and **Mom please please I tried ta be good I tried please don' hurt me m'SORRY-**

_"I would be alive if you weren't!"_

"Please-"

 _"Your father would be alive if you weren't!"_ The fingers, gnarled and sharp like warped metal, squeeze and squeeze and **you're hurting me let go please let go Mom-!**

The fingers thicken. Not much, not enough, but they thicken and grip hard enough to crack bone and it's not Mom, he doesn't know that face but it'll blur like the others, they always do...

**Close your eyes 'n don't forget ta breathe it'll be over 'fore you know it just BREATHE-**

The fingers, still boney and grasping, slide up his neck and force his mouth open, sweaty thumb forcing itself over his teeth and against the roof of his mouth with an unspoken _bite down and you're dead_ and he can't fucking breathe somebody please-

**BANG!**

_**"There you are!"**_ Scarecrow's here, but not here, now, he's moved, what's happening? The thumb in his mouth melts away and the bruising grip on his arm is gone. But he still can't breathe, he's gasping and gulping for breath and he just can't get any in- _ **"Ah-ah-ah! Eighty percent of my patients die after a second inoculation...one step closer and that's what he'll get."**_

He sees the black cape first, and then the thing it belongs to turns and **god** -

It's. It's Batman, but it isn't, it **isn't** , he's got somethin' on his head that's yankin' his lips back to show sharp yellow teeth and there's blood seepin' through 'em-

And the thing's reaching for him. A white, boney hand is moving towards him and no NO **NO MORE**.

That's not Batman. It's not it's not it's **not**.

"Stay back!" His voice comes out as a breathy whine and he tries to scream but his throat feels swollen shut. "Stay away from me!" **Please...** "Stay the fuck back...god..." He gulps, tasting tears at the corners of his mouth. "Please don't hurt me..."

 **CLANK** - _HISSSSSSS!_

The air grows bitter and he gags, jerks against the restraints and hears something tear. The room melts around him...and the white hand is on him at last.

* * *

Jason wakes with a headache. Well. An everything ache, but mostly his head. And his shoulder. And his throat hurts.

_"Jason."_

Huh?

He forces his head to turn-owowowow-and. Um.

Bruce is there. He's in his own room-he sees his bookshelf with his little Funko Batman and Robin on it-and Bruce is in here. He looks. Awkward. Like that blue thing-Sully? Is it that the name?-from _Monsters, Inc_.

What happened? He remembers...'members Crane, kinda, and Richardson-oh. Shoulder. Richardson got her psycho on and fucking stabbed him for the elf jokes.

"Hey, B." He grins, aiming for 'I had that' and probably hitting 'you totally saved my ass'. "You look like shit."

"Language." Bruce says, but it's that automatic 'Dad-Tone' that says he's running on autopilot. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million bucks." he lies, but his body promptly decides to rat him out with a harsh shiver that sends a flare of pain through his shoulder. "Mm-m'okay. M'okay."

Judging by the eye bags, Bruce does not think he's okay. He lifts a hand

**Big 'n muscular 'n DON'T TOUCH ME**

and Jason only flinches a little when it comes down in his hair, heavy fingers rubbing little circles against his scalp.

"I'm sorry, Jason."

Huh?

"Uh, I don't think this one was your fault, boss-man."

Unless.

Unless-SHIT. This is it. He's not sorry for what happened, he's trying to soften the upcoming 'you suck at this and I need a partner who's not going to get himself captured by a psychopath all the time'.

He tries to head it off.

"It was a one-off, I'll be better, B, I **swear** -"

"Jason-"

"I got cocky, tha's all, I'll-"

 **"Jason."** He shuts up, jaw tight. "Jay, this isn't...I'm not..." He sighs and starts again. "I'm not firing you, Jay. I'm sorry that I didn't get to you before Crane had a chance to use his toxin on you."

Oh.

He relaxes and flaps his hand at Bruce.

"M'fine, B. Really. Did ya get 'em?"

"Yes."

"See? Everything's fine."

Bruce doesn't look convinced. Whatever. Bruce worries too much, s'all.

He yawns and worms his way under the blankets a little more, eyes fluttering shut against his will.

And if there's the ghost of a laugh in the corner, or a hiss of rage from under the bed, well, Batman's here. He'll keep him safe.

He'll always keep him safe.

THE END

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Oz the Gweat and Tewwible' is borrowed from Stephen King's Pet Sematary, which Jason maybe shouldn't have read at thirteen, but he can't unread it now-I think maybe the Zelda flashbacks would have hit a bit close to home. His vision of Catherine Todd is based, in part, off of the mother in The Uninvited. And his vision of Batman is, of course, inspired by the Batman Who Laughs.


	70. The Cold Ache of Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a Thought. The Robin suit in Batman v. Superman is confirmed to be Jason’s (the flashbacks are coming, the flashbacks are coming). We also see a family mausoleum. So this is me fixing shit before DC can do anything because I’m sure there’s going to be emotional pain and I’m not ready for that, man, I can’t do it. I just can’t. I know they’re going to hurt me, either because they did it right like The Winter Soldier, or because they fucked it up so bad it was heartbreaking.
> 
> Required listening: ‘Beautiful Lie’ from the B V. S soundtrack. Seriously, IT ADDS DEPTH TO THIS.

It’s raining. That’s not new. It’s Gotham. The city is constantly weeping for its lost children, the horrors committed in its streets.

Or, Bruce thinks sometimes, it laughs so hard at the atrocities that it cries.

Whatever the case, it’s raining now, but not in here. Never in here. This building is strong and that might say something, that the walls protecting the dead are mightier than those protecting the living.

The only moisture in here now is by the door, where he shoved it open enough to step inside, and pooling by his boots, where it drips from his umbrella. He props said umbrella against the wall and makes his way across the cold, unforgiving cement, three flowers in hand.

Aster, for Mother-elegance, for she will always be the most elegant woman Bruce has ever seen. Always.

Gladiolus, for Father-strength of character. Bruce would never…he would not be who he is today, for better or worse, without Father.

And Snapdragons, for Jason. Technically they symbolize strength, but the real reason Bruce has them is because Jason always liked them.

He only comes at night, here, after the Bat is done, and only as Bruce. Not Brucie, Bruce. Just Bruce. He’s not sure why. Maybe so he doesn’t have to face them in the daylight, maybe in apology for not lying here with them. Alfred probably knows. Alfred knows everything (and oh, he is grateful that that’s not another flower to bring).

Dick’s been here at some point-he leaves daisies, always, a splash of light in this gloomy place. It was a little while ago-they’re well-preserved, resting quietly on the stone lid, and Bruce doesn’t touch them.

He sinks down to the floor, the chill creeping into his knees, stark contrast to that awful night when…the explosion, the fire, it had made the cement that wasn’t covered in debris burning hot to the touch and only later had he realized the extent of the damage, to the suit and to himself.

He’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry.

But sorry makes no difference, not now. Not ever.

It was a long night, a rough night, even by Gotham’s standards, and he’s so tired. He’s been tired, he thinks, for a long time, but not like this. Not like this.

Not for the first time, he wishes he could just lie down here and sleep forever.

He rests his head against the freezing stone of Jason’s…Jason’s coffin

**No parent should have to bury their child.**

and closes his eyes. Just a moment. Just for a moment.

Time gets away from him and at first he thinks he **did** fall asleep, or suffered a hit on the head at some point tonight-he’ll swear that there’s…stirring…under his ear. It’s not possible for it to be vermin, he **knows** that, he couldn’t…he made sure nothing…

He blinks and shakes his head, but the noise doesn’t vanish like it should. If anything, it grows louder, and-

“BRUCE!”

He scrambles back, falling on his ass in a very un-Batman like fashion, and struggles to his feet. If this is a drug, or the effects of a concussion, or whatever it is he will find the one responsible and **make them pay dearly-**

“BRUCE, PLEASE!”

And **Hell** , if that doesn’t sound like him…

But that’s not **possible…**

The stirrings become poundings, hard and desperate, and Bruce isn’t thinking when he leaps forward and pushes at the lid until finally, **finally** , the years of stillness give way and it slides, swiftly and with a terrible grinding sound, to the floor. The screaming stops.

And.

And, oh, dear **God-**

It’s been two years. It’s been two years and yet Bruce can remember every detail of his son’s…of Jason’s…they’d put him back. Back **together** , as best they could. Gone through the niceties of makeup and staples, put him in a suit he’d have hated.

The staples are gone and the eyelids they held are torn and bloody, the blood running into that damned cakey makeup that hadn’t done a thing in the end, and he’s staring (looking, not staring, the dead stare with no light in their eyes) at the ceiling.

But it’s been two years and he was…

He’s lost his mind. One of them-Scarecrow, Ivy, the sheer stress of the Batman-has finally eaten their way into his brain.

He can’t find it in himself to care.

**“Jason.”**

The eyes, blinking rapidly against the still-trickling rivulets of blood, snap to him in confusion and horror.

“Bruce?”

He’s well-acquainted with Jason’s nightmares, and **God** , if that doesn’t…he’s heard that tone before. Frightened, looking to someone to make everything okay.

(And oh, if Bruce hadn’t had a thousand nightmares of being **late** , of knowing that for once he hadn’t been there to make everything okay…)

They’re silent, Jason’s breaths (how…?) harsh and echoing in the suddenly too-small space, Bruce hardly breathing at all.

“Jay,” he whispers, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, then reaching into the…the box to wipe the blood off the boy’s face. “good God…just.” He swallows, or tries to. “Just hold that there, the bleeding will stop, just…”

He needs to move his hand so Jason can take the handkerchief. But. But his face is warm, and solid, and…

And before it had nearly been shattered beyond recognition and now it isn’t and he doesn’t understand.

Jason, for his part, is still, eyes moving involuntarily under closed lids, hands feeling around him, fingers pressing against the stone slab under him and pulling carefully at his clothes.

“Bruce?” he whispers, one hand coming up to grasp Bruce’s wrist. “What happened to me?”

And Bruce is at a loss for words.

Jason tries to sit up and Bruce lets him. The handkerchief flutters downwards, temporarily forgotten.

“Where are we?”

His voice is gone. He tries, truly, to say something-truth or lie, it doesn’t matter-but he can’t. He can, however, hug him, that damned suit crinkling in his arms.

**No softer than that cape should have thought about that but it’s warm at least it’s warm.**

And that, he remembers, had been a thought. That it was cold in here, that Jason had hated being cold more than almost anything else and that he couldn’t let him…

Jason hugs him back, arms loose around his neck, and the blood and makeup smear all over his jacket and **he does not care** because he’s **breathing** , and **warm** , and he wasn’t, that last time, he was cold and still and silent and-

He buries his face in his hair and doesn’t even bother pretending it’s raindrops on his face.

“Oh, God, Jay…”

Jason’s starting to shiver, though whether it’s from cold or if he’s remembering something (Bruce isn’t sure which is worse) is up for debate. Regardless, they need to get out of here, to get home, Alfred can…

He picks him up and he’s as light as he remembers him having been, but no longer so…

“Bruce?” Jason shifts in his arms and he hadn’t done that last time, either. “Are we in the mausoleum?”

He’d never taken kindly to lies. Bruce doubts he’ll start now.

“Yes.”

The shivering worsens, turns to near-jerking and he should have wrapped him in his coat but he can’t set him down, not now, not in here, he’ll be dragged back. It’s like the Greek myth-don’t look back, you’ll lose them forever.

“I thought…” Frantic, shuddery gasps hit his collarbone. “I thought maybe…B, was I dead?” He doesn’t give Bruce a chance to answer before wrapping himself around him, somehow, and whimpering, “I don’t wanna be dead, B, I don’t…I didn’t mean…”

Bruce sinks back to the floor and rocks him back and forth, rubbing a hand over his back and sparing another thought of distaste for the crinkly suit.

“Shh, Jay-lad, shh.” He swallows back the lump in his throat-that will have to wait. “I’ve got you, Jason, I’ve got you, you’re all right. You’re all right, you’re here now, you’re all right.”

Jason may not even hear him-he’s sobbing into his shoulder, grip almost chokingly tight, and Bruce wishes that just once he **had** come as Batman. The cape can be gotten off with one hand. The mac, not so much.

“I didn’t wanna die.” Jason whispers, trembling and doing everything in his power to avoid touching the cold floor. “I didn’t wanna die, B, I swear I didn’t mean to…”

Bruce wants to be sick.

He swallows that, too, manages to open the coat enough to wrap it around Jason a little.

“That wasn’t your fault, Jason. God, that wasn’t…that was never…” He swallows again, manages to get back up. “I’ve got you now, it’s all over.”

He carries him to the car, unsure whether to be glad or not that he drove himself here rather than asking Alfred.

Alfred…how will he explain…and Dick. Barbara. This isn’t…a phone call won’t…

He settles Jason into the passenger’s seat and covers him with the now-wet coat (his umbrella is still in there…it doesn’t matter) before jogging to the driver’s side and diving in, half-expecting this to be a cruel dream, for Jason to be gone.

But he isn’t. He’s still there, clinging to the coat and clearly trying to calm himself down. Bruce shoves the divider console up and out of the way and figures to Hell with traffic laws, he’s the Goddamn Batman, when Jason closes the distance between them.

“We’ll be home soon, Jay, I promise.”

“Alfie?”

“Alfred’s there, Alfred’s just fine, he’ll make you some hot chocolate, like always, get you warmed up.”

“I don’t wanna come back here, B.” he whispers, and his voice is so, so small.

**God, he’s only fifteen, please, no, take me instead, he’s just a child-**

Bruce pulls him close, hand pressing against his chest and feeling his heart pounding against his ribs.

“You won’t, Jason. I’ve got you, it’s going to be all right.” He leans over and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s going to be all right.”

THE END


	71. Holy Getaway, Batman! (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, the in-game explanation for ‘Scary cannot drive the Batmobile and lost the APC drivers more than once due to driving off a bridge, flipping upside down, and being unable to catch up again’.
> 
> Shut up. My saving grace for that damn car was that it just mowed through most obstacles rather than getting stuck. Riddler races were hell. (STOP JUDGING MY SHITTY DRIVING, EDDIE. LIKE YOU’D DO BETTER.)

Antoine’s minding his own business, checking the scanners for that fucking bat-monster thing (what even IS that, man, COME ON), when the radio crackles and a panicked, “I got Batman on my tail!” reaches his ears.

Welp. Bye, Henry. It was nice knowing you, say hey to the guys in the GCPD, if you get shipped to Alcatraz, he’ll try to send you a file in a cake.

This is what happens when you don’t like tomatoes. Heathen.

“Drive faster.” the Knight snaps. “If one more of you idiots gets caught, **just** one-”

“He’s got a rocket strapped to that thing!”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear!”

An ominous **VROOM!** is faintly audible. Antoine does not envy the poor bastard.

The Knight sighs and opens a new tab.

“Turn left.”

“Huh?”

“Fucking turn left! Now!”

There’s the squeal of tires, and a steady stream of, “Shit-shit-shit-shit.” Truer words have never been spoken.

“Can’t believe I have to fucking baby you idiots…do I look like a GPS…take a right on Skyler Avenue and head towards Wayne tower. Stick to the side streets, he doesn’t fit down there so well.”

“I’m not gonna make it-”

“I’m not mounting a rescue mission. Make it or don’t.” He steps away from the computer and flaps a hand at Antoine. “Tell me when he gets there.”

The blinking dot is going quickly. The scary **VROOM!** is…only a little faded into the background.

“I think he just drove through a pillar.”

The Knight rolls his shoulders and Antoine cringes at the nasty cracking.

“It’s like you didn’t pay attention at the briefing…where is he?”

“Two streets out, sir.”

“Wu, listen very carefully, because if you fuck this up, I’m cutting you off.” Silence. “When you get there, do a quick one-eighty and speed like hell towards Stanton Drive. There’s a little alley down there next to a sketchy coffee shop. You can get through, he can’t. Got that?”

“I got it, boss.”

“Then do it.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“He doesn’t kill.” And ohhh, the boss sounds…cheerful. That’s bad. “Horribly maim, maybe. That’s a thing. You ever had a compound fracture? Lemme tell ya, it’s the strangest thing, seein’ a bone pokin’ out, specially when you’re hangin’ upside-down, five hundred feet above a freeway-”

“I got the picture, boss.”

“Then drive. **Faster.** ”

There’s silence on the other end. Antoine sighs and risks murmuring, “Uh, boss, as far as motivational speeches go, that wasn’t your best one.”

“He’ll live.”

Okay. He tried. Really, it’s Henry’s own fault for…for…

“How’d he even find you?”

Henry swears and there’s the shrieking of tires.

“I cut him off by accident, I swear to God-”

The Knight mutters something that Antoine translates to, ‘how are you alive’. Fair question.

He’s just gonna…not say anything.

“I did it.” Henry sounds about to have a heart attack. “Holy shit.”

“Don’t get cocky, he’ll still find a way to track you. Get moving.”

“Sir-”

“I’m not helping you again.” Pause. “Why are you not moving.” The blip on the map lunges forward and the Knight sighs.

Henry signs off and the boss slumps forward with a metallic, “Kill me now.”

Antoine considers it a sign of his extreme professionalism that he doesn’t facepalm. This is fine. Things are going relatively well, there is no reason for this level of dramatics.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”

“That was a direct order, Drouot.”

“My contract states that I may ignore orders I find unconscionable, sir.”

“Your contract permits mercy killings.”

“You don’t appear to be maimed or suffering crippling psychological damage, sir.”

Irritation radiates from the other side of the room.

**“Traitor.”**

“Sorry, sir.”

“You are not.” Nope. This is the most revenge he can take for being recruited as the ‘training dummy’ for the Batman simulations. Being hung upside-down sucks. “You weren’t sorry for the Batsymbol shirt, and you aren’t sorry now.”

Yeah…he will swear, ‘til his dying day, that that’s what was available at the time. And it was. Sort of. Street kiosk, y’know-it was that, or an ‘Our clown can beat up your clown’, and with the boss’s touchy feelings about the Joker, well…crossing the street to a new kiosk was out of the question. He’d nearly been run over twice already. There was only one choice.

Notably, though, he’d never been sent to get disguises ever again. That chore had fallen to Riley.

“Invoking the right to remain silent, sir.”

Irritated silence is his only answer. He takes his peanuts out of his pocket-no seagulls in here! Haha!-and watches Henry’s blinking dot speed towards Chinatown.

“Is Wu still on the move?”

“Yes.”

“Wu!”

“FU-sir?”

“Cut him off again.”

“But-”

“Get him towards Mercy Bridge, I don’t care if you have to run over Two-Face to do it, just get him over there.”

Wu makes a hard right and Antoine does **not** envy him.

“Boss?”

“We have to see if that missile launcher’s operational, Drouot.” It is and they all know it. “And if we take the car out…so much the better.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“If this helps Wu’s driving skills…nice bonus.”

And there it is.

“Of course, sir.”

The Knight brings up the traffic cameras, wilts a little, and grumbles, “You could always make it look like an accident.”

**Oh my god.**

He’s not looking. Antoine can sneak in a quick nose-bridge rub.

“No, sir.”

“Malfunctioning drone. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I’m afraid every drone here tonight has been triple-checked by you personally, sir.”

“Why do I even bother.”

“The swamp incident of twenty-twelve, sir.” Antoine says smugly, because he’s a full ten feet away and the Knight’s theoretically more interested in the laptop than in flinging him out of the blimp.

Tellingly, the boss shuts up after that. Well. Until Wu appears on camera, Batman right behind him.

Y’know, Antoine thinks he heard a noise. Like, in the engine room. Could be dangerous. He’s just gonna…go check that out. Can’t have the blimp crashing and burning.

THE END


	72. Liberate Me Ex Inferis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked if I had any more bits about Jason being rescued before things reached critical levels of fuckery, and I *did*, so here you go! There’s this and then one more wrap-up piece floating in my files, and after that…uh…Bruce took this for the dodged bullet that it was and invested in ALL the therapy.

Bruce isn’t one bit surprised that Penguin is robbing the museum. Really, you’d think they’d learn not to display valuable bird artifacts. That golden penguin may as well have a ‘Reserved for Oswald Cobblepot’ sign on its damn case. No, it’s not charitable thinking, but he’s long since passed the point of feeling charitable.

It’s a little odd, though, that Cobblepot is merely standing by the case, tapping his umbrella on the floor and looking decidedly annoyed.

“About time you show up.” That doesn’t bode well. “I have been here for over an hour already.”

“What do you want, Cobblepot.”

The little man snorts and turns icy eyes to Bruce.

“Any leads on your boy, Batman?” His lips quirk into a vicious grin. “Because I’ve got one for you now.”

He refuses to feel bad for slamming him against a doorframe.

“Talk.”

Cobblepot coughs and Bruce scowls.

“I’ve got him. Back at my office.”

“You’re lying.”

“Sadly, no. But if you want to take that chance…last I saw him, he didn’t look well.”

Bruce doesn’t believe him. Cobblepot might not kill Jason (on purpose), but he’s not likely to return him, either-not without a price.

“We’ll go see.” He drags Cobblepot towards the exit, ignoring the angry hissing.

“He was conscious as of half an hour ago-be **gentle** with me, you overgrown bully-my PA’s with him.”

If Bruce gets there and that’s not the case, he’ll break Cobblepot’s other leg. He’s not even exaggerating-it isn’t hard, to break a bone. Put pressure in the right spot and it will crack like a pretzel.

He flings the man into the backseat and may or may not clip a fire hydrant pulling out of the museum’s parking lot. Cobblepot huffs.

“Didn’t see you scrambling to get to him earlier.” Bruce spots a pothole and aims for it. “Or didn’t you know where he was?”

“Cobblepot-”

The man laughs, irritated and sharp, and Bruce imagines him trying to stretch his bad leg out a bit. Too bad.

He hits the pothole, hears swearing from the trunk, and feels gratified.

The last thing he wants or needs is Cobblepot’s men opening fire on him, so he drags their boss from the car before it’s even come to a complete stop. The crowds scatter-far too slowly for his liking-and they enter the back of the Iceberg.

“There is no reason for you to shatter my door.” Cobblepot hisses, fishing a key out of his pocket. _“I will open it.”_

Bruce sees no reason not to shatter the door. It would be faster. But Jason…Jason’s been with the Joker for months, who knows what kind of condition his mind’s in. That sort of violent entry could spook him. It’s that, and **only** that, that keeps him standing in the hall while Cobblepot opens the door.

He sees Marquis first, moving back to stand with her boss. She was on a bench with…

Dear god.

Jason looks like death warmed over-he’s thin and beaten bloody, and the way he’s holding himself says cracked ribs. Marquis clearly cleaned him up a bit-his face is blood-free, at least, and his gloves are off. He’s been crying, that’s obvious, and now he’s looking at Bruce like he doesn’t think he’s real.

Bruce is across the room in a heartbeat, hand outstretched to touch him. He’s here, he has to be, other people were interacting with him…

God, what did that bastard **do**?

“Jay, my god…”

Glove presses against flesh and he’s real, no dream, no hallucination. Jason blinks and throws his arms around his neck, fingers gripping his cape, and buries his head in Bruce’s shoulder.

“Dad.” he chokes, voice thick with tears and fear. “Dad…m’sorry, m’sorry, s’my fault, just don’t go, don’t leave me here, please-”

Things take a minute to sink in, but when they do, Bruce wants to be sick. He settles for hugging the boy instead, **carefully** because who knows what’s broken. He feels so **fragile** , like he’ll shatter if handled too roughly, but he’s here, he’s breathing and warm under Bruce’s hands.

“Shh, Jay.” God, he’s here, he’s not dead, he thought… “Shh. It’s okay, I’m here, we’re going home.” He pries a hand free and Jason whines, tightens his arms around his neck.

“Please don’t go-”

“I’m just getting my cape off, that’s all.” he soothes, rubbing his back with his free hand. “I’m not leaving you, Jay, I promise.”

It’s difficult to do it one-handed, but he does manage to get it off and wrap Jason in it. Part of him wants to just sit here forever (not dead, he’s not dead, Jesus **Christ** ), but they need to go.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

“Mm.”

He’s light, and scarily limp when he folds into his arms, but Bruce can feel his heart pounding under his hand. He’s shivering, a little, despite the cape wrapped around him, but Bruce almost prefers it. Shivering is better than a motionless corpse.

He turns to Cobblepot and Marquis. He should…he owes him for this. Whatever brought this on, whatever strings the man pulled, he owes him for saving Jason’s life.

“Cobblepot.” What is there to say? There’s nothing he can say, really.

Cobblepot, thankfully, agrees.

“Keep a better eye on your damn brats.” he hisses, but he doesn’t sound all that upset. “And get that damned clown under control.”

Jason shudders. Bruce bristles a bit at the implications and Marquis huffs.

“Take him home.” she snaps, and she **does** sound upset. “He’s been through enough.”

Jason pulls his head up from Bruce’s shoulder and mumbles, “Thanks for…for.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He drops his head back. “No vodka shot for you, huh?”

What.

He glares at her-vodka shot, why the hell would she offer his underaged son a **vodka shot** -but Jason makes a noise that might be a laugh.

Never mind. He’ll worry about this later.

They leave, and as much as it kills him to admit it, there is no passenger seat and he can’t drive while holding him. He opens the trunk and sets him down, tucks the cape around him, and brushes his hair out of his face. Jason’s looking at him like he’s going to dump him at the nearest stop sign and that just… **god**. “Are you…”

He’s not okay. He’s nowhere near okay, and Bruce knows it. But Bruce is having visions of internal bleeding, and if they need to go to Leslie’s…

“M’fine.” he mumbles, and he doesn’t sound fine, he sounds **exhausted** and in pain, but Bruce forces a smile for him and rubs his head.

“Let’s go home.”

Jason lifts a hand, brushes his fingers against Bruce’s wrist and whispers, “M’sorry, B, I-”

**Oh, Jay. No. No.**

“Shh, Jay-bird.” he soothes, fingers dodging a contusion behind his ear. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“F’I hadn’-”

“Shh.” Jason quiets, swallowing hard, and blinks up at him. “Shh, Jason, this isn’t your fault. I promise it isn’t.”

His eyes flutter shut and Bruce panics for a second before realizing that he’s unconscious, not…

**Jason, I’m so sorry.**

He pulls his hand away and climbs into the front seat.

“Alfred.” Where to begin? “I…I have Jason.”

“Sir?” Alfred sounds politely puzzled, which means he’s had to sit down. “I’m afraid I misheard you-”

“You didn’t.” He jumps a curb by accident and cringes at the sound of breaking concrete. “He…” **Asked me not to leave him. Where do I even begin to deal with that?** “He’s alive.”

Silence on the other end, then, “Will you be coming straight home, sir?”

“Yes. We’re on our way now.”

* * *

Jason’s still and silent when Bruce goes to pick him up, and for a second (a long, horrible second) he doesn’t see him breathing.

**God, not now, I just got him back-**

He grimaces, though, pulls away from Bruce’s hands, and **oh, I just lost five years off my life.**

“B?”

“We’re home.” He picks him up and starts for the medical bay on the other side of the cave. “It’s going to be fine.”

“Mm.” Jason twitches, slumps against him and murmurs, “Thought you’d left me.”

 **“No.”** Oops. He didn’t mean…dammit… “No, no, Jay, I…” Excuses won’t work. They sound weak enough in his head. “I’m sorry, Jason, I’m so sorry.”

Jason doesn’t answer, doesn’t so much as move until Alfred appears with a shocked, “Master Jason…”

“Hey, Alfie.”

Alfred’s pale but steady enough-he’s brought the medical cart and rolled up his sleeves. Bruce sets Jason down on a gurney, inwardly wincing at the way he just…pools…on it.

“M’jus’ gonna close m’eyes.” he breathes, and he’s passed out before he’s even done talking. Alfred sighs, reaches over-and he **is** shaking, now, looks every second of his age-and rests his hand on Jason’s head.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Boots first, Bruce decides, and go from there. “I don’t know, Alfred, he…he thought I left him.”

“You would have come for him if you could-”

“But I didn’t! I can solve Riddler’s puzzles-even if they don’t have a damned **answer** -but…”

“Enough. Not now.” Alfred fingers a tear in the right sleeve. “I fear this won’t be salvageable.”

It’s probably for the best.

Getting Jason out of the costume is an all-new lesson in patience-it’s not designed to come off easy, and parts of it are glued to his skin with dried blood. Thankfully (or worrisomely), he stays unconscious, whimpering a little now and then but not moving.

“Penguin.” Bruce says at some point. “Penguin…I think this is about last month, that building that got caught in Joker’s bomb. He…found him.”

“I’m not surprised.” Alfred sniffs. “Cobblepot was never one to take things lying down.”

Bruce is just about to agree when Jason twists his head and mumbles, “M-Miss Marquis?”

“Jason?”

He cracks his eyes open, blinks a few times.

“B.” He swallows hard. “Th-thought I dreamed that bit.”

“No, Jay. You’re home, in a little bit I’ll take you up to bed, okay?”

More blinking. Then, “M’tired.”

“I know.”

“Alfred?” He looks over and Bruce eyes the cuts in his neck, catalogs them as barbed wire. “C’n we cancel this week’s book talk? Jus’ this one time?”

“Shh. You ask that now, but two days in bed and you’ll be bored.” Alfred’s voice is fond. “Hold still, please.”

“Sorry.”

“Shh. You have nothing to apologize for, and I won’t hear any more of that. Do you understand?”

“Mm-hm.”

He’s quiet after that, eyes fixed on the bats a little way away. He’s more bruised than anything, but there’s an open wound on his chest that Bruce suspects came from a crowbar. It would explain the broken ribs.

By the time they’ve gotten him cleaned up and into pajamas, he’s half-conscious, but he perks up a bit when Bruce picks him up.

“C’mon, Jay. Let’s get you in bed, huh?”

They haven’t touched his room, since…since. Alfred dusts, but that’s all, and Bruce hasn’t come in for more than a few minutes. There’s still days, though, that he’s knocked and opened the door with Jason’s name in his mouth to tell him dinner’s ready or to ask about his homework.

Those aren’t good days.

Jason’s breathing is heavy and even by the time Bruce lays him down, but that changes in an instant when he steps away-just to fetch a chair, that’s all!

“Don’t go-”

“Shh, Jay. I’m not.” He drags the chair over. “I’m right here.”

Jason shudders and clutches at his blankets, eyes glassy.

“That’s what you always say, but then you leave ‘n I-”

“Shh, shh.” If Joker knows what’s good for him, he’ll be nice and quiet for a good long time. “I’m here, Jay-bird, you’re okay. Alfred’s down the hall and I bet Dick’ll be here soon to see you.” He reaches over, grips a pale hand. “I’m here. And you’re here, you’re safe.”

Jason’s hand twists, grips back.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Either he believes him or he’s too worn out to care, because he closes his eyes and lets his head drop to the side.

* * *

Jason hasn’t moved so much as an inch when Dick thunders up the stairs. Bruce hears him running down the hallway (and cursing when he skids on the rug and misses the door).

He does, eventually, make it in. His hair’s everywhere and there’s bits of glue where he took his mask off in a hurry (ouch). At least he’s not in costume…

“Jason?”

“Shh. He’s asleep.”

“God.” Dick drags the desk chair to the other side of the bed and sinks into it. “God, Bruce, how-”

“Penguin. I suspect this has to do with his feud with the Joker.”

“Penguin? You’re kidding. Little bastard has a heart after all.”

Partly, and partly Cobblepot knows what the Joker’s like, knows it would anger him to no end if Jason was returned home. But it doesn’t matter, Jason’s home, he’s alive and safe and **that’s** what matters.

“What happened?”

Bruce has a mental catalogue. It isn’t a nice one.

“Too much.” he says tiredly, seeking out a pulse for the umpteenth time since Jay passed out. Dick grimaces, reaches over and brushes his fingers across Jason’s hand.

“Does the Joker know?”

“Probably, by now.”

“Mm…B?”

Bruce tries a smile (thinks he fails, smiles are awkward when he has to think about them).

“I’m here, Jay. Dick’s here, too.”

“Hrm?”

“Hey, Jay-bird.” Dick leans into his line of vision. “You awake?”

Jason blinks a few times, face furrowed.

“You’re here.” He sounds confused, a little surprised. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Dick’s better at making smiles not-awkward. At least one of them can do it. “Course I’m here, Little Wing.”

Jason huffs-might be a laugh, might be a complaint-and mumbles, “Never ‘lucinated you before, so guess y’re…” He yawns. “Here.”

“Yeah, Jay. I’m here. Go back to sleep, huh? No offense, but you need your beauty sleep.”

“Fuck you.”

If Dick’s smile is a little strained, Jason doesn’t notice. He just closes his eyes again and leans his head against Bruce’s hand with a soft sigh. Dick gives him a few minutes before hissing, “Hallucinations?”

“There’s traces of hallucinogens in his system, and sedatives.” Bruce grinds out. “And you know what the Joker’s like.”

“Where the hell was he?”

“Arkham.” His voice is barely a whisper, because **why didn’t he even think to check?** “One of the abandoned wings. Penguin was expecting funding and chemicals, but…”

But. Bruce doesn’t want to know what it must have looked like down there, but he can work with the injuries and conjure up a picture-sharp objects, some source of electricity (likely equipment from Arkham itself), dark…and, Joker being Joker, he’ll bet everything he has that there was a camera down there, or at least a video monitor showing the goddamn front hall.

“ **Fuck** , Bruce.”

“I know.”

“We’ve been back there a dozen times…if we’d just…five minutes with the infrared, even…” Dick inhales, shaky, and knots his hands in the comforter. “God, Jay, I’m sorry.”

Jason, thankfully, doesn’t wake. Bruce is not looking forward to that conversation, to picking up ‘thought you’d left me’. Because he **had.** Not on purpose-God no, if he’d thought for a second that Jason was in Arkham, he’d have razed it to the ground-but that doesn’t matter, because he hadn’t and he didn’t and now…

**Jason, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.**

He’s here now, at least, and Bruce will take that. Not knowing had been worse than anything-he’d been fairly certain he wasn’t dead, because the Joker is exactly the type to leave his body in a giant bird’s nest, tarred and feathered, maybe, but…

He doesn’t realize his fingers have started a nervous rotation against Jason’s scalp until he nudges his head against them and slurs, “Feels nice.”

“Shh.”

“Don’ go.”

“I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

“You’ll be here? F’I wake up?”

 **“When.”** he promises. “I’ll be right here.”

“’Kay.” He yawns and grips a corner of his pillowcase. “Night.”

Bruce isn’t sure he was awake to begin with, but it doesn’t matter. He’s here now, he’s home, and they can deal with everything later.

THE END


	73. Conclusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re done with this arc! (Well, as far as I know…) Like I said, Bruce took this for the dodged bullet that it was and invested in some therapy. Given that Joker’s now picked a fight with Penguin, Barbara is, at least for the time being, still Batgirl-he’s too busy to come after her.

Dove’s minding her own business, cataloging what furniture might be salvageable (that goddamn clown, it’s over now, or it will be, he’s never done something like this and the Penguin is in full Vengeful Mob Boss mode) when there’s the sound of crunching glass and the boys fall in line, shotguns at the ready.

The Batman is here.

He hasn’t been seen much for three weeks. Just the aftermath-men hanging from gargoyles and lamps, frightened whispers in the streets. Joker hasn’t been seen much, either. Just once-storming up to Cobblepot and shrieking about spoiled punchlines. Dove’s got to give it to the boss-he blew a smoke ring at the bastard, said they were even for that building that went up last month, and told him to watch for Bat infestations. The Joker had vanished after that. Sent a tape to Channel Four News asking for the return of his lost songbird, and then gone silent.

Until last night. Fucker. What’s Batman good for if not Clown Control?

“Settle down, boys. You won’t hit him anyway.”

The hell does he want now, huh?

“But-”

“Don’t start shit you can’t finish.” Yeah, that chair’s dead now. Good. Maybe she can use it to beat Joker’s head to a bloody pulp. “What do you want.”

He wants something, clearly. You don’t hear the Batman step on something as easy to avoid as **shattered glass** unless he wants something.

“Joker did this.”

“What was your first clue? The smiley face on the wall? The ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’ spray-painted on the carpet? Or the playing cards stuck in the bar?”

Silence. Then, “Where is he.”

“We’ll be handling this. Your track record is shit.” She turns around and wonders if she can get her pencil into his eyeball. “What do you want, Batman.”

 **Awkward** silence, and more glass crunching as he shifts. The boys haven’t moved, and she can’t blame them. Finally, he speaks.

“Thank you.”

“What.”

“Robin,” he says, and wow, she’s never seen him look so…small…before, “Robin would have died. Thank you for returning him.”

“Yeah, thank the boss’s petty streak.”

“I have.”

Yeah. Yeah, to be fair, they haven’t had any trouble with him for three weeks. Dove’s just glad there haven’t been any Robin sightings.

“Is that all.”

“B, you still suck at this.”

WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUCK-

That’s it. That’s it. Gotham is about to get a new supervillain, and her first order of business is to nail the Batman with a Molotov Cocktail. HE DOESN’T FUCKING LEARN WHAT THE HELL-

She breathes deeply, counts to ten, and reminds herself that she doesn’t wanna traumatize the kid further.

And. To be fair. He’s got a domino mask on, sure, but other than that he’s in normal kid clothes-jeans and boots and a red hoodie. Still shouldn’t be out here-with if that homicidal jack-in-the-box comes back?-but he’s (probably) not out picking fights with murderers. That’s something.

“Hey, kiddo.” she says, and that seems to be his invitation to move from the doorway and over to Batman, hands buried in his pockets.

“Hey, Miss Marquis.”

He looks better. Thin, still, hollow and fragile, but better. He’s not jumping at small noises and there’s a bit of color in his face now. He’s favoring his right ankle, though, and his hoodie doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be that large on him.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” He yanks on Batman’s cape. “Mister Social Disaster wants to know what needs fixin’.”

The awkward silence intensifies and ohhhh. That makes sense.

“The boss is on the phone to the electrician,” she starts, “but he’s probably about done. You can take it up with him.”

“Hn.”

Jason scuffs at a yellow ‘H’ and draws against Batman’s side a little bit. Not a moment later, Cobblepot limps out, takes one look at the scene, and draws his face into a decent imitation of a Ring-mad Bilbo.

“You.” he seethes. “This is your fault, you gliding galoot, and **Heaven** help you if you get in my way, **I** will deal with this-”

“Cobblepot.”

The boss stops. Inhales. Lifts one finger and jabs it at the ceiling a few times before folding his hand around his umbrella and squeezing hard enough to turn his fingers white.

“What. Do you. **Want.** ”

“I have connections.” Of course he has connections. “I can give you their numbers, they’ll do what you want on my dime.”

“We’ll see.” Ouch, Cobblepot’s beyond pissed now. He only gets that expression when somebody’s fucked up real bad. “I’m not pleased with this, Batman. Not. At. All. You should have dealt with this before it escalated and cost me my _windows!_ ”

And he’s off, ladies and gentlemen, on a patented Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot Rant. It’s best to just let him run his course. She turns to Jason, who’s looking at the smiley face on the wall and looking like he wants to puke.

“You want somethin’ to drink, kiddo?”

Jason eyes the playing cards but nods anyway and she beckons him over.

“C’mon. I think we’ve got hot water, at least…yeah, we do.”

“What happened?”

“CCTV says he went all out. Boss mostly closed up after you went home, so it could’ve been worse…here we are. No whipped cream, I’m afraid, but yes to the wafer sticks.”

“Thanks.” He wraps his hands around the mug and inches away from the cards. “Um. I wanted to. Before, after…when Penguin…after that. Thanks for.” He hides behind the mug, ears red. “For, um, y’know. Things.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” She sits next to him, gives him a one-armed hug and he leans against her side, head ducked. “Just…Batman’s right. You would have died. Take your get-out-of-vigilantism free card, huh?”

“I am. For…for a while. This mask’s for B, not me.”

Hm.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t wonder, a little. And Jason’d been barely recognizable, but…

The temptation to check her hunch had been strong, it really had. But in the end…did it even matter? Batman is Batman no matter who he pretends to be in the daytime, and he’s not the biggest threat right now.

“That’s good, kid. That’s good.”

He yawns and points at Cobblepot.

“How long’s he gonna go?”

“Another twenty, maybe. I think most of it’s Short Person Rage*, ‘cause Richardson does the same thing.”

He laughs a little and scrubs a hand across his face before draining his mug and setting it on the bar.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t feel so frail now, but she doubts she’s going to get the echo of, _“I just wanna go home.”_ out of her head any time soon. And less frail or not, he nearly tips forward a couple of times before Dove finally readjusts her arm around him and says, “I gotcha, kiddo. F’you wanna close your eyes, I won’t let you fall.”

“’Kay.” He coughs and leans his head against her shoulder. “Jus’ for a minute.”

Sure.

He’s heavy and slack-limbed after about three minutes. Doesn’t matter, he’s not hurting anything. She kinda wishes Batman would hurry up, though, so he can put his kid to bed where he belongs.

Cobblepot’s pacing now, as much as he **can** pace, anyway, and hissing about bloodstains and gunpowder being impossible to get out of the carpet. The boys have retreated somewhere out of the line of fire and Batman hasn’t moved an inch. Dove’s not stupid enough to think he doesn’t have one eye on her, and it’s a bummer Jason’s asleep. If she gave him a shot glass, what would happen? Blind Rage? The Glare? Dad-reflexes propelling him over to slap it out of the kid’s hand?

She won’t, she won’t. Nobody’s groaning on the floor with their bone sticking out of their skin, that’s the important thing here.

But it still might be funny.

Jason stirs, with a whimper of ‘please no it hurts not again’, but it doesn’t go further than that. Thankfully.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.” she says anyway, rubbing her hand up and down his arm. “S’just a dream, he’s not here.”

She should have gotten herself a shot. It’s been a long night. That CCTV…brr. People…forget. Sometimes. Joker isn’t…he…that cackling, bad-joke-cracking persona he puts on for the news is frightening, yes, but it lulls people into thinking that he could be harmless. And sometimes, yeah. Sometimes all he does is line the subway cars with whoopie cushions. But he didn’t have that persona on last night. Last night was pure, blind, machine-gun-powered rage meant to terrorize and destroy. No laughter. Not even his usual flamboyant movements. He’d spent most of the time chatting calmly and **rationally** to the camera, explaining everything he was going to do. Knives had been prominent. So had some sort of Joker Venom/Fear Toxin smashup, but Dove suspects Crane will slam the door on him rather than share, so at least there’s that.

But still. That last shot before he left, of him climbing onto the bar like a giant spider and pressing that **face** against the lens…sleep is for the weak, anyway.

Finally, finally, a notebook is passed back and forth and Batman comes over, avoiding the glass.

“Thank you.” he says again, and his voice is tight. Well. As tight is it ever will be, probably. Sounds like he choked on his gravel smoothie, to be honest.

“Sure.”

He doesn’t even try to wake the boy, just picks him up. Jason twitches anyway, eyes fluttering open and one hand clutching at the cape.

“G’night, Miss Marquis.”

“Dove, kid. S’been long enough.” He gives her a sleepy smile and nestles into Batman’s arms without another word. “Sweet dreams.”

“T’anks.”

Then she blinks. And they’re gone.

THE END

 

 

*With each passing season of _Gotham_ , Oswald’s hair grows ever higher. So. Make of that what you will. (I’m short. My ponytail adds an inch e _xactly._ )


	74. Run and Run as Fast as You Can

AN: **I’ll catch up to you eventually!**

I don’t understand the mooks that mock you in the Red Hood DLC. I don’t. He is literally the ONE vigilante that will kill you. Why would you go out of your way to piss him off? I dunno, that just seems like you’re asking for something to happen to you. Whatever. It made me happy to teach them some manners, though. I’m a vengeful player. I’m the type to pull the fuck over to beat down someone talking smack on the side of the road, for no other reason than ‘I can’.

**Talk shit, get hit, motherfuckers.**

Basically, yeah. I’ve written Razor before-Scarecrow transplants, it’s the same guy, his luck’s just that bad.

* * *

Razor sprints down the sidewalk, the screams of his cohorts echoing behind him. It’s true what they say, there’s no honor among thieves. Or, in this case, hired mooks.

_Should’ve worked for Two-Face…he never comes down here, no fuckin’ money in it, god dammit…_

He shoves someone-grandma? Businessman? Who knows-outta the way and scurries into a Circle K. Ahh. Bright light. People. Potential safety.

Well. Person. There is one person in here, the strung-out night clerk. Her head’s bobbing along to the store radio (shitty pop music) and every so often she snaps her gum. Oh well. Better in here than out there. Sorry, cohorts, you will be missed, and you’ll be used as a cautionary tale for new hires. What a legacy.

He wanders around, buys a pack of gummy bears and a new lighter and one of those cheap-ass battery fans before figuring it’s safe to leave. Surely he’s lost the guy by now, right? He’s not worth the effort anyway, he’s just the muscle.

Nothing bad happens on his way back to his crappy apartment, but it’s not like he’s duckin’ down alleys. By the time he gets there, the panic’s wearing off. Whoop-dee-dee, turns out the Red Hood’s just as human as the others! And the guys were so convinced he was the boogey man…pfft. Whatever. Just a nut in a mask. This city’s got a lot of those.

He strolls into the kitchen for a beer (it’s been a night, he’s earned his fuckin’ beer) and finds that the light bulb in his fridge is out again. Piece of crap, what the hell…

He swats at it until it buzzes and floods the fridge and floor with yellow light. There. This is what he gets for rescuing this thing from a dumpster…but hey, it keeps his shit cold, that’s what matters. So what if it might’ve had body parts in it once? Nothin’ a little bleach can’t fix.

He roots around until he finds his beer and slams the fridge shut (huh, maybe that’s why the bulb doesn’t work half the time). Heh. He’s got cred now. Not that many of ‘em can say they ditched the Hood.

He chugs the beer and flops onto his bed, adrenaline rush giving way to exhaustion and sleep.

* * *

The feeling of being watched is what wakes him, and even though he puts it off as a nightmare he can’t remember, Razor gets up and shuffles to the bathroom (beer always does this to him, no matter how little he drinks!) to pee. He’s stumbling back to bed when he realizes that his mouth is…really dry. Desert-dry.

Ugh. Damn beer. Every time, he should learn…

Muttering darkly about the betrayal of cheap booze, he shuffles to the kitchen, flicks on the light, and freezes.

The Red Hood is leaning over his sink, filling a water bottle. He (it? Maybe he’s not human after all!) stills and gives an awkward over-the-shoulder wave.

“Hey.”

Razor is not too proud to admit that he runs for the door. He doesn’t make it-gets tackled about three steps in-but he tried, and that’s what matters.

“I don’t know nothin’, man, I swear to god please don’t hurt me-”

“Why’d you run, then?” Razor scrambles to free himself, fails, and braces himself for pain and death. He’s rolled over and there’s a huff from above. “Are you seriously wearing a Batman shirt?”

It’s ironic, fucker.*

He tries to spit, as last some last attempt at defiance, but his mouth is too dry to do anything but make a noise. Despite its lack of features, the helmet appears to be exasperated.

“Wow. I almost feel bad now.”

And with that, he’s being hauled up by his shirt and dragged across the floor. Razor tries to kick him, misses, and ends up with a boot on his neck while the window slides open. Oh shit, oh shit…

“This is how it’s gonna go. You tell me everything you know about your boss, I maybe don’t accidentally drop you four stories.”

“Go to hell.”

“Been there. Got bored and climbed out.” His shirt bunches and he’s dragged up. No, no no no! “But you can go. You got friends there, I’m sure.”

“God, please-”

Cold air hits his face. He looks up at the fire escape above him, feels his hair dangle into space below. Oh god oh god no NO-

“Only one is listening is me.” The helmet cuts into his view. “So you can tell me everything you know about the runners in Chinatown, or I can drop you. You probably won’t die…but when I get down there, you’ll wish you had.”

Razor refuses to feel shame for crying.

“Okay, man, okay! Just don’t drop me, please-”

“Sure thing, new best friend.” He’s pulled in and the window closes. He’s just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he’s thrown into the TV. Ow. Ow. “So. The fuck is Scarecrow doing, exactly?”

This sucks. Either Crane will kill him, Richardson will kill him, or Hood will kill him.

He misses the days when it was Batman and maybe Robin-the first one, the second one broke his wrist once and the third one might be a robot. Batgirl wasn’t bad. But this guy? Come on! How many fuckin’ vigilantes does this city need, anyway? It’s not that big!

“I dunno.”

“Really.”

“I don’t, I swear! Crane only keeps me around ‘cause I’m kinda immune to his toxin, I think he thinks I’m a science experiment or somethin’, he doesn’t tell me shit!” He gulps when the red helmet doesn’t…like, look less scary or anything. “All I know is that he’s hirin’ street-levels to peddle his stuff. That’s all.”

**CRA-ASH!**

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT’S GOING ON NOW-

He’s grateful he pissed earlier. He doesn’t think he’s got bladder control right now.

Batman has crashed through his window and oh thank JESUS he’s SAAAAAAVED.

Hood drops him like he’s hot and he crawls as close to Batman as he dares. Never mind that the guy broke his knee and dropped him into Joker toxin once, he came and got him out! What’s a little horrible injury between friends, right?

“Fun-sucker.” Hood rolls his shoulders. “Crane’s sellin’ his crap in Chinatown. You’re welcome.”

“Hood-”

“Last time you were near me, a bat smacked into my head. I think it had rabies. I’m leaving.”

Batman is…exasperatedly silent. Hood vanishes and a second later Razor hears his front door open and shut.

“Hey, Bats.”

He really should have expected the fist to the face.

THE END

 

 

*Literally 90% of the criminal population has Batman merch. (Joker has a plushie. And a thong.) Bruce _hates_ this trend. Jason has a shirt, but it’s reeeeaaallllly faded and if anyone asks…

**Batgirl. It’s Batgirl. Barbie can and has kicked my ass before and yes, I said thank you.**


	75. I've Made a Huge Mistake

Hey, you.

No, not _you_ , yer aunt Clara. Yeah, you, wise guy. C’mere.

Huh? ‘What’re ya doin’ hangin’ upside-down?’ Glad ya asked. Gemme down…what? Waddaya mean, ‘no’? C’mon, asshat, this ain’t funny! My face is all red! My head’s gonna s’plode!

Fine, fine, I’ll tell ya why I’m here if you’ll help me down after. Deal? Deal.

Okay. First thing ya gotta know, s’that Catwoman-bless those legs-ain’t the only burglar in Gotham. She’s just the one with a theme, an’ the only one Arkham’s gotta take ‘cause she never even makes it to Blackgate. She’s the premo, okay? Tha’s all.

Oh, yeah, I burgle. S’Gotham. S’what we do. Now, me, I got morals. I steal what somebody else stole, I don’t knock over some honest Mom ‘n Pop. S’why I’m down ‘ere. Yeah, they call it Crime Alley ‘cause’a all the crime, but Imma tell ya a secret-you wanna find the stuff ‘fore it gets fenced? It’s here. It’s all here.

I been casin’ this buildin’ for weeks, yeah? _Weeks._ An’ I guess this one tenant, second-to-top floor, has got some _weird_ hours. So, look at it, man. A baby could break in here.

Yup. I went for it. Had a good plan, too. Cut the power, got in actin’ like the guy here ta fix it, picked the lock on the front door. Easy.

…

Yeah, I fucked up real bad, I know. But you don’t want me, I promise. You want that weapons nut up there. I swear to Jesus, Jack Daniels ‘n George Michael that I ain’t _never_ , an’ I mean _never_ been more scared then when I turned that flashlight on and lit up a fuckin’ wall of knives. Seriously. Big ones, little ones, couple’a random kitchen knives. And a potato peeler. The hell, man. Who does that?

So, yeah, I ain’t too bright, I know. I figured I got some kinda enthusiast, went ahead anyway.

That freak up there has a goddamn bazooka! Just…just sittin’ on the table! I ain’t _that_ dumb, I was gonna book it, but…uh…

I don’t. I dunno what happened. A tank drove through the wall and knocked me out an’ here I am-stop laughing, you fuck, it ain’t funny!

…huh? Waddya mean, raised in a basement by clowns? What kinda joke is that? I told ya how I got here, now gemme…down…

Aw, shit.

No, no, man, man, I didn’t mean to insult your knife wall. Looks great! Real, uh. Modern. Yup. Potato peeler’s a great touch. Where’d you get-no, no, come on, come on, don’t shove me like that, I’m gonna huuuuuuuurl-

…

…

…

Why, man. Why. I gotta eat too, y’know, s’not like it was personal.

Yeah. Okay. I’m real sorry I figured you fer an easy mark, huh? Now c’mon, stop _grinning_ like thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-

…

…

…

The hell is _wrong_ with you?

I’m gonna puke on you. I’m gonna aim for you and we’ll see who’s laughing-what’re you doing. What’s with the duct tape-what are you taping on my shirt? What are you doing? Jesus Christ, man, it’s not like you even had anything to steal!

Hey! Hey you! You can’t just leave me like this, c’mon! Hey! Asshole!

…

…

Hey, girl. Gemme down? Please?

THE END

 

 


	76. FOR SCIENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: ‘Ode to Joy’. You know the bit. You’ll know when to put it in, just hold that thought.

Bruce should have seen this coming when Alfred conveniently decided today was his grocery shopping day. He never shops on Saturdays (it **is** Saturday, right?). He shops on Wednesdays. Sometimes Thursdays, if need be, but Wednesdays are his preferred day. This is, as far as Bruce knows, Saturday.

He is, Bruce will find out later, **fleeing.**

But right now, at this exact moment, Bruce is living in blissful ignorance. And confusion. What is going on up there?

He exits the cave. Nothing seems out of place. Nothing is missing. There are no strange smells coming from anywhere.

And Jason’s preferred ‘homework music’ is blasting from the kitchen.

Right about now, Bruce remembers that there is a science project due on Monday. Jason had refused all offers of help, saying that he had it. Which. Earlier this week, that was great. He has successfully fostered Responsibility. A-plus parenting.

Now, though…

He’ll just. Go look. To be sure everything’s all right in there.

With more than a little trepidation (nonsense, it’s a science project, how bad can it be? He trusts Jason with explosive gel at night, after all.), he approaches the kitchen. The guitars grow louder with every step he takes.

Clinging to the idea that he really **does** trust Jason with military-grade weapons on a fairly regular basis, he opens the kitchen door.

In time to watch a spark scurry along a fuse.

“Bruce, duck!”

Too late, he realizes that Jason’s set up a small fortress on the other side of the room.

It all seems to happen in slow motion. The spark blooms against the side of the-volcano?-and for a second, nothing happens. Then-

**BOOM!**

There is light. There is heat. There is the splat of something hitting the ceiling.

And then all is silent.

Jason pokes his head out from the safety of his barricade. First he grins at the still-smoking volcano, then his eyes slide to Bruce.

Bruce sees horror there. That can’t be good.

“Uh…I did tell ya to duck.”

What. Happened.

Nothing hurts, but when he reaches up to his face, it feels. Larger. More open.

**Smoother.**

A look in the oven door says that it **is** smoother. His eyebrows are…missing.

“Okay, there’s tutorials on YouTube, we’ll fix this.”

They’re not there. Where are they? They were there this morning! Thank God the cowl covers this…he’d never hear the end of it…he can just hear Richardson making a _Doctor Who_ joke, and he’s heard enough of those this month…and Nygma, oh, **GOD** , no, he’d never shut up about it…

Quinn would take pity. He’s not how he feels about that-SELINA. NO. She’ll know, she’ll mock him ‘til one of them dies.

Batman is not going out until they grow back. Bruce Wayne has the flu. Yes. Yes, yes, perfect.

“You couldn’t have gone with baking soda.” he says, or thinks he says. “You had to blow it up.”

“Everyone does baking soda. I gotta clean this up and then we’ll find a YouTube thing so Alfred doesn’t know your eyebrows are gone.”

Alfred knows. Alfred always knows.

“Hn.”

Looking up, Jason **knew** this would happen-there’s a sheet of plastic wrap hung up near the ceiling. Unfortunately, he looks up just as the red drips down and gets a mouthful of…strawberry jelly.

He never should have come out of the cave.

THE END


	77. Roots and Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This exists solely to inflict as much emotional damage on your poor saps as I possibly can. Because like hell am I suffering alone. What? If it weren’t for me being lazy, I’d be a supervillain. Maybe like…an affably evil one, but still. Anyways, it’ll be short. In theory. Title from a lyric in Lund’s ‘Broken’.
> 
> *loads shotgun of angst* SUCKS TO BE YOU, WAVE BYE-BYE TO YOUR HAPPINESS. THE JOY TRAIN HAS LEFT THE STATION AND YOU ARE IN TRAGEDY TOWN, SUCKERS.

There’s rain above him, turning the dirt to slick mud that just keeps slipping through his fingers.

**God no please not like this not like this-**

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe and he knows that not a foot away is air-salvation- **life** , but he can’t breathe **now** and-and-

**Please not like this-**

And his fingers finally breach the topsoil, scrambling in the mud, blood drying in the wind.

* * *

**A week earlier…**

Jason suspects this wasn’t his brightest idea. Though, really, when your criteria for ‘should I?’ is ‘is it as bad as chasing after the Joker by myself?’…well…you get a lotta leeway, okay? Not many things are that bad.

Besides, it wasn’t for himself.

Okay, so it was a **little** bit, but not a **lot** , and…yeah, it was seventy-five percent case and twenty-five percent ‘has Bruce revoked my access yet?’

Answers: he found his perp in Bruce’s database, and he still has access to the Batcomputer’s (why is everything you own Bat-something, B, huh? How old are you, four?) files. Huh, look at that, B’s a sentimental bastard after all. Or he just spaced. That’s more likely. New Robin to train and all that.

Whatever.

He got a bit distracted, testing how far his access went, and ended up in his own files, because he’s a little morbidly curious as to what it says about…about. Y’know.

It was all so clinical, to the surprise of none. Bruce had apparently gone over that tape with a fine-toothed comb like the obsessive bastard he’s always been, and the only things missing were internal injuries and a few of the more subtle-yet-permanent damages like his shoulders. Things that aren’t obvious when you’re sitting quietly in a chair.

Fucker. Jason’s still wondering if Bruce spent more time cataloging the damn tape than he spent looking for him.

He’d been about to click out (he doesn’t **want** to drive all the way to Wayne Manor to punch Bruce in the face, he doesn’t, he swears on his own unused grave) when he’d spotted the ‘leads’ tab.

Eh. He probably put it there in case Alfred was looking over his shoulder or somethin’. Like bringing up a Wikipedia article when you were about to get busted playing Solitaire instead of working on your essay.

But Jason’d clicked on it, and, well…

Well.

It’s more extensive than he’d thought. He’s not sure how to feel about that. Bruce had been close, a couple’a times-questioned the right guards, even, if he’d just questioned ‘em again a month or two later, after the Joker bought ‘em off…

He hopes that fact keeps him up at night.

He continues to scroll. Lotta dead ends, lotta close calls, lotta **where the hell did you get THAT idea?** And he’s just about to sign out when his eyes flash across, of all places, the school Bruce’d left him at for all of three days after he caught him with that tire iron in hand.

Wasn’t that place closed?

Apparently not. Wow. Only in Gotham, man, only in Gotham-what’s that?

It’s a link to the ‘genetics’ page Bruce made him fill out at the very beginning. He’s still torn between finding a little creepy and admitting that it’s kinda practical. What’s interesting about it now, though, is that there’s been some editing done.

What the hell? Did some long-lost relative crop up? An amnesiac or something?

 **Sheila Haywood** , the name reads. And next to it, **relation-mother.**

What? He feels his lips hitch up in that stupid rabbit-expression (he can’t help it, SHUT UP) he gets when he’s really confused. Mom (?) used to laugh and call him Bugs.

This makes no sense at all. Bruce must’a had a period of insanity or somethin’. He has exactly two parents (well, three and a half-Alfred counts as **something** and Bruce…once upon a time, maybe…), and this Sheila Haywood is not one of them. He even looks a bit like Catherine-same hair, same eyes.

But.

But Willis had those features too, didn’t he.

Jason shoves the laptop away from him and takes a few deep breaths. This is ridiculous. Bruce makes mistakes. Obviously-look at him, huh? This is one he hasn’t caught, that’s all. Hasn’t looked further because there’s no reason to look further. Sheila probably just…maybe she came forward looking for money or something, that’s a thing. Happens all the time.

He pulls the laptop back, after a few minutes, and opens the file. It’s not a big one-name, birthday, picture (he doesn’t look like her, she’s blonde and bright-eyed and **pretty** ) and…associates.

Joker. Ah. That relationship is over, according to Bruce-there had been blackmail involved. Well, there’s that lead explained. Dead end, too. She’d been free of the clown for over a year, before Jason ever…

Bruce is mistaken. That’s all. Willis knew a lotta people, for fuck’s sake, he’d never been…Mom had always been upset. Y’know.

His hands are shaking and he doesn’t know why. This isn’t anything. This is a mistake, Bruce makes them all the time. Look at him. God, look at…look at Babs, if Bruce hadn’t made the mistake of givin’ Joker a thousand and one chances, she wouldn’t be…

Sheila Haywood smiles awkwardly at him from her driver’s license picture. The last time Bruce updated this file was…maybe six months after he disappeared. At the time, she’d been living in a middle-income apartment close to Gotham General-her place of work, apparently.

What does it matter anyway, huh? Catherine was his mom, even at the end when she barely recognized him anymore. And she hadn’t done somethin’ stupid enough to get Joker-blackmail, either. So there.

He mashes the little red ‘X’ in the corner and flings himself backwards to reach his bottle of Fanta (Fanta, don’t ya want-a?). Fucking Bruce. Why does he have to leave that kinda stuff lyin’ around, huh? It’s over. It’s done. Archive it or whatever and find somethin’ new to brood over. Like Dick’s poor fashion choices. (His hair’s growing dangerously near mullet territory again…if he steps one spandex-clad toe into Crime Alley, Jason’s tackling him and taking an electric razor to that before it can evolve into its final form. Never again. Gotham doesn’t deserve that.) Priorities, old man. **Priorities.**

His Fanta’s half-flat and he scowls, blames Bruce for distracting him and making him forget to drink it while it was still bubbly, and takes a sad swig anyway.

As it turns out, the Fanta isn’t all **that** flat and with his head hanging partly off the couch, it, uh, gets near his nose. The fizzy feeling makes him gag and jam his tongue against the roof of his mouth to try and stop it.

He should’ve just had tea. Soda’s too much risk.

He sets the bottle aside, glares at it so it knows its blame, and stretches. There’s a neat **pop-pop-pop** along his spine, followed by a nasty knock in his right hip that forces a startled gasp out of him, and then blessed silence.

Well. For Gotham. Somebody’s screaming at somebody in traffic below.

**Never change…**

Mom used to shut the window, even if that made it stifling inside. Said she didn’t want Jason picking up any of those words. Joke was on her, a little bit-the ancient Russian lady that used to watch him now and then taught him everything he ever needed to know. Bruce…had not been enthused when Jason’s ‘I know Russian!’ turned out to mean ‘I know how to tell you, your dog, and your mother-in-law to fuck a rotten egg in Russian!’

What? He hadn’t specified.

His computer glows at him, the background of Jane Austen’s signature* looking starker than ever, and he lets his head fall completely off the couch, feels the blood start rushing to it.

Sheila Haywood is, uh, Joker-free now, right? Not working with Harley Quinn or whatever? Harley can be scary as fuck when she wants to be.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it is completely irrelevant to him. Bruce made a mistake. It happens. Or the Replacement had that idea. Or Dick. Yes. That’s all.

But he’s still going to check, because he always checks on past Joker associates, in case they’re sleepers or anything. Look at that one infected guy…Henry or whatever.

S’a matter of public safety. That’s all.

 

 

*Jason’s computer is named Jane. I will hunt you down with a crowbar if you dispute this. It might take a year, but I will find you.

 

 


	78. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 2

Sheila Haywood hasn’t changed one iota since Bruce added her to the file. She hasn’t moved, changed jobs, or bought a new car. Literally the only difference Jason can see is that she works more. Even her hairstyle is still the same.

Her work with the Joker-drugs, she used to get him drugs and lots of them-apparently went undetected. This is Gotham, he shouldn’t be surprised, but still. Anyway, she’d essentially gotten away with it and, somehow, left the clown’s employ. He’s not sure how, and he’s a little skeptical, but tailing her for three weeks says she literally goes to work and goes home. No weird visitors, no strange phone calls.

The same thing that Bruce’s file says.

He’s not sure how to feel about that. Relieved? Annoyed that she never faced punishment? What did Joker do with all those pills, huh? Nothing good, he can guarantee.

Whatever. It’s over, it’s done with, she’s not doing anything now.

But something’s off. The no social life, he can get-you don’t see **him** out with people, do you? It’s just…he’s getting a Vibe. It’s probably just him being paranoid. He’ll admit it, he gets Vibes about a lotta people, and most of the time nothing happens. Better to be overcautious, but he acknowledges that his Danger Radar sometimes…gets overexcited.

He’ll just…keep watching. Periodic checkups or something. Harley Quinn’s still snug in Arkham, but last time she was out she was working on rounding up an awful lot of Joker’s old associates. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know why. Sure, he feels a little sorry for her, because he made her this way and he knows what that’s like, but he can still feel the electricity coursing through his body, and her hand was on that switch just as often as his was.

(But he remembers, once, or thinks he does, that she was going to put him out of his misery. There’d been water. It had tasted funny and made him tired and queasy and then Joker had made him vomit.)

Sheila steps outside, cigarette already in hand, and he catches the shine of a Zippo for a second before she lights it. He ducks behind his e-reader* even though she’s not looking over here and takes a sip of his tea. He feels a little bit like a weird stalker, hiding over here with his giant sunglasses and his hood up, but this is Joker-related and he has to be **sure.**

If another few days go by and nothin’ happens, he’s gonna put her name in with the other former clowns and check up every couple’a months and call it good.

A sudden gust of wind blows his hood back and he flails with his cup and book for a second before setting both down and swiping for it. He gets it repositioned and considering that there’s no screaming children, he figured no one noticed. Sheila, though, is gone-he catches a glimpse of her going back inside and figures maybe that’s his cue to go.

It’s cold out here anyway.

* * *

Gotham has four seasons: Allergies, Holy Fuck It’s Hot, Crane NO, and Holy Fuck It’s Cold.

Well, and that awkward stage between Hot and Crane, where it’s cold and windy but no one’s digging out their Halloween decorations yet. Usually there’s rain.

And that’s where they are now, and yes, it’s raining-a steady, freezing drizzle that’s being blown all over the place. The cold and the damp are teaming up to make Jason’s joints **ache** , and between the pain and the environment he’s miserable and jumping at every flash of purple neon. All in all, he’s in no state of mind to be out here, and he needs to go home. His rule, his one major, never-ever-broken rule, is simple: can’t make good judgments? Don’t put yourself in the position to make any. The last thing he wants is to freak out and…he doesn’t know…there’s so many ways that can go really, really badly. Killing people that have it coming is one thing, but he’s neither able or willing to forgive himself if he shoots some college kid with a purple jacket or something.

He’s fucked up enough in his life without adding something like **that** to his list of sins.

Nobody’s out tonight anyway, a fact for which he’s very grateful-makes sticking to his one rule a hellova lot easier.

He stumbles through his window rather than risk neighborly interaction and slumps to the ground underneath it, head slumped against his knees and his whole body trembling with pain. Now that he’s down and as safe as he can be, it’s hitting him how **much** everything hurts.

He strips off his gloves and starts with his boot laces, only to get smacked with the memory crowbar of Mom helpin’ him learn to tie them in the first place.

_“The bunny hops AROUND the tree and ducks UNDER the bush! That’s RIGHT, you did it, Jayjay!”_

He’d forgotten that. He’d forgotten all about that, how…

The laces are rough in his fingers, a tattered edge rubbing into a small cut on his left index. He doesn’t know when or why he became so hyper-aware of this fact, but now he can’t ignore it.

He drops the laces, tips clacking gently against the floor, and leans his head against the wall. He misses his mom. Which is really dumb, he’s an adult, she’s been…been gone for years and she wasn’t even really **there** for that last one, it’s just…

He doesn’t have anyone, now. He can’t face Alfred, and Barbara and Bruce and Dick have the new guy, the undamaged one. He can’t even really complain about that-you don’t want damaged goods. Everybody knows that. And Mom was…for all her faults, an’ all his faults, she was there and he knows she loved him because she said so, even…even near the end, when she was so out of her head she wasn’t getting up too much.

And now she’s gone.

Logically, he knows he needs to get up, get in the shower, and go to sleep, not sit here moping. Emotionally…that’s another story.

He’d hated the rain as a kid. As an older kid it had been because it turned his cardboard boxes to slush, but even as a little kid it had made him antsy. No going outside in it. And sometimes it came into the bathroom.

He doesn’t love the rain now, either, but it never rained in Arkham. He couldn’t even hear it down in the basement. So it’s. It’s a nice reminder that he’s out, that he’s safe-well, y’know, all things considering.

Sometimes, though, he’s not sure he’s really grateful. Maybe death would have been kinder.

Doesn’t matter now, does it. Least he’s cut all ties. Make it easier for people if he fuckin’ bites it on the job.

He loosens the laces on his boot and pulls it off, sets it carefully against the wall, and starts on the other one. He’s not dead tonight, so he may as well take a shower and warm up.

 

 

 

*Jason strikes me as the type to be all, ‘fuck yeah, Kindle’ because he doesn’t have to lug ALL of his books from safehouse to safehouse.


	79. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to Emotional Hell we go…
> 
> It’s entirely up to you as to how much of anything Sheila says is true. My lips are sealed, and it’s not like Jason can confirm anything. Audience Interpretation for the win!

This isn’t his fault. Really it isn’t.

He really was just minding his own business, picking up a few things for dinner, but this is Gotham, and every outing carries the risk of armed robbery. It’d be fuckin’ laughable if it weren’t, you know, annoying.

And potentially dangerous-this guy’s clearly a rookie at the whole ‘robbery’ gig. He’s waving the gun around and Jason can just **see** that finger twitching. Idiot…unless you’re really, really ready to kill someone, finger off the trigger, don’t crooks take any sorta common sense classes anymore, jeeze…

So. Really, as a qualified individual (anyone asks, he’s got prior military experience haha), Jason has to intervene. It’s an eighty-twenty shot that the guy’ll hit somebody rather than himself, and that’s just…no. Just no.

Fucker. He just wants to go home and make a goddamn stir-fry and then maybe have a root beer float and then go out and see about throwing the fear of a horrible death into that pimp whose girls walk Lindt Avenue and have barely-covered bruises. That’s literally all he wants to do today. **Is that so much to ask? IS IT?**

He sighs, sets his bell peppers (and they’d better still be here when he’s done, they are **nice** bell peppers, dammit) down, and thinks he should just get into the habit of wearing his body armor every time he leaves his apartment. Fuckin’ Gotham bullshit…every goddamn time…just once, just **once** , is all he asks…this never happens in Metropolis…

“Hey, you!”

Day-Ruiner turns around in time to take a fist to the face. He drops like a stone, gun falling neatly into Jason’s hand. There. Disaster averted, can he get his groceries and go home now?

No. No, he can’t, because there’s witnesses (and yeah, okay, that little boy staring at him like he’s Iron Man or something is really cute), and they’re all swarming around him. God dammit. See, this is why playing the hero is a stupid idea, he never learns…

“Holy shit, dude-”

“Sir, if you’d just-”

“Wow-”

“Did you see-”

stopStopSTOP _STOP **STOP-**_

“Really, I just-”

Someone grabs his arm and a woman says, “I’m a doctor, let me see your hand.”

He’s about to protest-he knows how to throw a punch, for fuck’s sake-but.

But.

Doctor-lady is blonde and blue-eyed and. And.

And he doesn’t know what to say, or do. Nothing? Nothing’s a good option. Nothing’s the best option. It’s just.

Up close, he can see it, maybe. Same jawline. Or maybe he’s grasping at straws, he just doesn’t **know** -

He’s led out of the throng-and oh, joy, somebody’s calling the cops and somebody else is recording this for ‘the gram’, whatever **that** is-and into the frozen aisle. An ice cream display with a smiling penguin on it stands out and he wonders how long it’ll take ol’ Ozzie to pitch a fit.

Or who the hell knows, maybe he’ll be flattered.

“Look, um, Miss-”

_“Jason.”_

What.

He shuts up, unable to even protest or deny or-or **anything** , and she reaches up, brushes roughened fingertips across the brand on his cheek.

“Look at you,” she whispers, “look at you.”

He should…something. ‘Do I know you?’ or maybe ‘what the hell are you doing?’, but he’s just. She’s. People don’t.

How the hell does she know who he is? He only hides the…hides it when he goes out because people stare, not because he’s worried about running into someone.

Sheila Haywood drops her hand and smiles. Jason is reminded uncomfortably of Leslie Thompkins trying to convince him, when Bruce first took him in, that she wasn’t going to hurt him. It’s a bright, reassuring smile, and never mind that he doesn’t…like…people smiling at him so much anymore, he doesn’t trust it. Every time he’s gotten **that** kind of smile, it’s been followed by a painful-ass shot at best (that sucker didn’t make up for **shit** , Doc, that **hurt** ) or…worse.

Makes it easier to lie, though.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh!” The smile reals up a bit, turns awkward like her driver’s license photo. “I thought…hem, hem.” She straightens up, magically professional, and takes his (perfectly unharmed, **thank you** ) hand. “This is awkward, I’m sorry…oh, you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I know how to throw a punch.” His mouth is dry and he doesn’t think that came out as testy as he wanted it to. “Who are you, exactly?”

He doesn’t want confirmation, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he needs to just shut up-

“Jason Todd?” He nods before he can stop himself. Even now, with his name so alien to his ears, he responds to it. “I. Your father was Willis Todd, right?”

Another nod. Sheila drops his hand but doesn’t stop **looking** at him.

“Hem, hem…this. This might be…I don’t want to have this conversation in an ice cream aisle. Can we talk somewhere else?”

He should say no. The answer is no, Bruce’s stupid files mean fuck-all and she gave the Joker who fucking knows what and…and…

And she recognized him.

And she **asked.**

“Okay.”

* * *

‘Somewhere else’ turns out to be some Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away. Jason recognizes exactly nothing on the menu, but he’s game for anything once. He’s eaten rat before, for chrissakes. Joker…didn’t. He didn’t come back, for a while. Almost a week. And no one else had known to come, then, or they just hadn’t bothered. And it had run by, and, well…

Well. He doesn’t remember what it tasted like. He’s grateful.

Whatever this is-some sort of stew, with a crap-ton of vegetables in it-is spicy as all hell and he makes a note to test it against the Death Broth from his preferred soup cart across town. He likes it, though, even if it does make his lips hurt. (In its defense, it can’t help that he has the bad habit of chewing on them when he’s upset.)

Sheila apparently does the same thing-seems like every time he looks at her she’s either got them between her teeth or is desperately trying to keep them out. Her lipstick’s long gone after about twenty minutes.

If he’s going to be honest, he’s not sure which is more unnerving-the fact that he’s out in broad daylight, without the security of his hood and his sunglasses and a book-shield, or the fact that he’s out with what Bruce’s files claim is his mother.

Both. He’s gonna go with them both being equally stressful and not think about it further.

They haven’t spoken since they sat down. He doesn’t know what to say. How much does she know, what’s going on?

“I thought you were dead.”

Well, that wasn’t what he was expecting. Though to be fair, a lot of people were under that impression. Supposedly.

“Mm-mm.” Maybe not the most eloquent of responses, but it’s not like Emily Post has a chapter about ‘what to say to people who thought you were murdered by an insane clown’. “Not exactly.”

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

For what? It’s not like **she** kidnapped him and gave him to Joker. Jeeze.

“It wasn’t your fault-”

She laughs, sort of, and it’s shaky and broken and a little unsettling.

“I don’t think we’re on the same page, I’m sorry.”

What’s going on.

“Um, Miss-Miss? Miss, okay-Haywood, I don’t…”

“Willis Todd and I dated for about two years,” she says, and okay, maybe she doesn’t know very much but she recognized him so she knows **something** and he doesn’t understand- “Then we broke up and he started seeing Catherine Johnson.”

What do normal people say to this, people that haven’t seen Batman’s stalker files?

“Okay?”

“You have to understand, I was a poor college girl, and by the time I realized…” She laughs again, awkward and shaky and broken. “You were a **dream** pregnancy, kid.”

Well. Add that to the bucket of ‘didn’t know, don’t care, thanks’.

“That’s good?”

She nods.

“By the time I realized, it was…I didn’t know what to do, I ended up in some crap clinic, arguing with your father.” He figures now’s not the time to state that Willis was no father. He was just sorta…well. It doesn’t matter. “Labor’s a bitch and don’t let anyone tell you different.” They don’t. “I went down, after, and when I woke up, Willis was gone and the doctor-well, I say doctor, you know how it can be down there-said you’d died.” She reaches across the table and grips his sleeve. “I was young, I was on painkillers that probably weren’t…I believed him, and I’m sorry.”

The sad thing is, it’s Gotham and that kind of shit happens all the time. Willis used to complain that not even the damn mobs would take him and why didn’t he throw him in the river and blah, blah, blah. Mom-Catherine-used to, on her better days, tell Willis to shut up and drink his goddamn beer. Usually he’d even do it, because by the time he’d start complaining he was halfway through a box anyway and too comfy to retaliate.

So. As crazy as it sounds, it’s not at all out of the realm of possibility.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault, it’s okay.”

“I should have known better.” Frank, to the point. “I should have realized from the get-go. I was studying to be a doctor, for Heaven’s sake, what does that say?”

“That I didn’t want you to flunk your exams?”

This time the laugh’s a little more genuine and she pats his arm-why does she keep **touching** him?-and shakes her head.

“Maybe.”

They fall into a semi-awkward silence. There’s the buzz of casual chatter around them, and the sound of dishes being passed around and of traffic outside, shouting and honking horns and an ambulance.

He’s not sure what to say. What **is** there to say?

“But you recognized me.” That’s not what he meant to say. He meant to…to put an end to this, because he doesn’t have family and it’s better that way and…

And she could have kept her mouth shut and she didn’t and he wants to know **why.**

“Batman was looking for you.” Because Alfred made him, probably. “And I…I made some mistakes, when I was younger.” He can’t even really judge her too much because Joker got inside his head, too. “He thought. He thought I might be able to help. God, he scared the shit out of me.” He’s good at that. That’s one of the very few things he’s absolutely mastered. “And I didn’t know anything, but…but here you are.”

She’s still holding his sleeve and he twists his arm so his fingers are brushing hers. It’s the best he can do.

“Yeah,” he says, and he doesn’t mean for his voice to be so goddamn tight. “Yeah, here I am.”


	80. Tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Batman has his own tab for this on the Tropes page. Wow, Bruce. Anyways, when you first take control of him in Knight, he’s just done this to Gordon…and is, literally, RIGHT BELOW HIM on a gargoyle. And then he terrorizes him (and by extension, the player) by reappearing RIGHT behind him like a creep.
> 
> Happy Bat Appreciation Day! :D

“Thank you, Commissioner.”

Gordon nods and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket, turns to light one. Jason’s just about give him shit (Barbara asked that he do it) when Bruce’s black-gloved hand snatches his cape and then they are **moving** , vanishing over the edge of the building and coming to rest on the lower ledge.

What’s going on? Is Gordon possessed? An imposter? Are they going to have to beat the mind control out of him? Jason is not looking forward to that, Gordon’s a nice cop and Barbara might murder them if they break her dad.

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE.

Above, there’s an irritated sigh and a muttered, “Every damn time.” Jason frowns, tips his head back to see if there’s, like…glowing tentacles or anything. Nothing. It’s quiet, and dark, and there’s the faint smell of smoke that’s absolutely killing him because Gooooooood it’s been a whole month.

When the world doesn’t end, he pulls on Bruce’s cape and whispers, “I distract him and you take him down?”

Confusion radiates from the cowl.

“What?”

He points towards the smoke smell.

“Somethin’s up with the Commish, right? So I distract him and you take him down.”

“Hn.” Confusion’s gone. “Nothing’s wrong with Gordon.”

“But…” Oh, he gets it. Bruce is going to ditch him because ‘it’s too dangerous’ and ‘it’s better if I can feel guilty without too many witnesses’. Whatever. “I’m not stayin’ behind.”

Footsteps come towards the edge and Bruce puts a finger to his lips. Jason shrugs and presses against the wall, out of sight. Eventually, the footsteps go the other way and there’s the sound of a door closing. Gordon’s inside-HE’S INSIDE. WITH PEOPLE WHO DON’T KNOW THE DEAL.

They gotta go.

“Vents?”

“We’re not attacking Gordon.”

“But…”

“It’s tradition,” Bruce explains, “to leave suddenly. He knows that.”

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait. That bullshit he does about just appearing out of nowhere at home, he does that to other people? On purpose?

“Does Agent A know you don’t have manners?”

“Robin-”

“I’m telling.” He moves down the ledge, out of range. Or. Y’know. Sort of out of range. “I’m telling, and I’m telling him you about choked me making sure I didn’t have manners, either.”

“I did not-”

“You’re the one who made sure I knew where the releases were so I wouldn’t get strangled by my own cape.” He crosses his arms. “Fifty god-goshdarn times.”

“There is no reason to bring A into this, Robin.”

He thinks about it. Gnaws his lower lip for a few minutes. Decides that he’s hungry.

“We get ice cream, and I keep my mouth shut.”

Bruce’s mouth gets that shape that says he’s trying not to laugh and Jason scowls. This isn’t funny. This is Serious Business and he really will tell Alfred if his demands aren’t met.

“Fine.” He raises his hand to his ear and Bruce shakes his head, turns away and Jason **knows** the asshole’s laughing at him. “I’m serious, I’ll do it!”

“One hour. In one hour we should be near a Baskin-Robbins.”

That’s more like it.

“Done.”

THE END


	81. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random headcanon time! Catherine is the one who named Jason-Willis…acquired…a yellow blanket with a sheep on it, which brought to mind the myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece, and ta-da, name. (Jason’s not entirely thrilled about that, seeing as Mythological Jason was kind of a dick, but oh, well.)

They talk for hours, after that. Honestly, Jason’s still not sure what she knows or doesn’t know about…about Batman and the Joker and everything, but he can’t bring it up, he just can’t.

He’s only a little alarmed when they finally stand up to leave and she hugs him, shaky-armed and kinda frail-feeling. But. It’s, um. He may not exactly **like** it, because it came out of nowhere and there’s that little voice in the back of his head whispering **worked for Joker, worked for Joker!** , but he appreciates the idea. And. Um. People don’t…they haven’t…he’s had, like, four non-thank-you-for-saving-my-ass hugs since he got back, and one of them was a tackle-hug from Dick that scared the shit out of him and earned Dick a broken nose that Jason’s not at all sorry about.

He must not respond like normal people, though, because she steps back abruptly and says, “Hem, hem…I’m sorry. I just…I’m sorry.”

Whoops.

“It’s okay. Just wasn’t expecting it.” He forces a smile and hopes it’s not overly serial-killer-y or anything. “It’s not your fault.”

She steps back-ahh, personal space, you don’t realize how valuable that is until it’s gone-and straightens her shoulders.

“I understand if you don’t…want anything to do with me.” Um- “But-and call me selfish, it’s a flaw of mine and I know it-I. I’d like the chance to get to know the man you’ve become.”

There’s an out. There is an out, right there, tap-dancing in front of his nose. A simple ‘no’ and that’ll be the end of it.

But she doesn’t seem to have **expectations** , some built-up memories of a dumbass kid that thought he could save the world, and…and everyone else **does** and…

Just once. Just once he’s not second fucking choice or damaged goods and he’s selfish too, sometimes, and he hates himself for it.

“I’d.” His voice is choked and he’s going to blame it on allergies if anybody asks. “No, I’d…I wouldn’t mind. I’d like that.”

She looks relieved and he made the right choice.

She gives him a card from her purse- _Dr. Sheila Haywood, Gotham General_ -with a myriad of numbers on it.

“The third one down is my cell phone,” she says, and he nods like he doesn’t go through phone numbers like a kid goes through favorite things.

“I’m between phones right now-mine sort of…died.” That’s true, at least. It did die. It fell twenty stories and into a sewer and he wasn’t willing to go and get it. “But I have an e-mail until I get a replacement.” He’ll worry about all the other replacements later. It’s Gotham, he can come up with perfectly plausible stories.

“Well, that’s mine.” She taps said e-mail, written in metallic blue letters near the top of the card, with one red nail. “I don’t have any other ones.”

That doesn’t surprise him. That lack of social life usually doesn’t mean having a crap-ton of e-mail addresses.

This is good, he reasons. This makes it easier to make sure she’s not, like, up to anything. It has a tactical purpose.

“Okay.” Across the street, a child squeals as it smacks at a balloon. The sound is reminiscent of Harley Quinn’s ‘BAYYY-BEEEE!’ and it’s an effort not to cringe. It’s time to go home. “I gotta go home and get ready to go to work.” Does that sound apologetic enough? It must, because she nods.

“Same. It was…it was good to see you.”

She pats his cheek again and vanishes into the crowd heading for the subway before he can say anything.

Well. He did not get out of bed expecting his day to go this way.

* * *

Gotham’s quiet. Probably because it’s cold and windy, but the only people out tonight are a couple of corner girls, one brave, brave mugger (not so brave anymore) and a twelve-year-old boy who’s now warm and wouldn’t stop gushing about **holy shit it’s so cool they’re never gonna believe me but who cares wow wow wow** until Jason finally gave him his jacket to get him to just **chill.**

He can get a new jacket. He has other jackets. This kinda thing may or may not be a big part of that.

His sought-after pimp is snug and warm inside, and Jason lets himself in through the window, rifles through his record collection and judges all of it, and slouches comfortably in the guy’s bedroom doorway. He’ll wake up soon. He knows from personal experience that if you’re stared at long enough, you’ll wake up. Usually quite abruptly.

It takes the fucker five whole minutes to sit up and turn the lamp on. It takes him five whole seconds to go for the gun in his nightstand drawer.

The gun that Jason…borrowed. Without the intent to give it back. He holds it up to make this clear and says, “Lookin’ for somethin’?”

“Fuck-”

“Yeah.” He drops his hand and straightens up, strolls into the room and picks up the overflowing wallet on the dresser. “You know why I’m here, huh.”

“I didn’t do nothin’-”

He refuses to feel bad for grabbing the guy’s ankle and yanking him out of bed hard enough to smack his head on the nightstand corner.

“Anything,” he corrects. “You didn’t do **anything.** And that’s not true, and we both know it, don’t we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Samantha Rider, goes by Honey.” He moves his fingers along the man’s ankle, adjusts his grip. “April Green, goes by Missy.” Right there. “Need I go on?”

“What about ‘em? You interested? S’not like there’s a waiting list-”

**CRACK!**

There. Now he can’t run. Jason drops the ankle, ignores the howl of pain as it hits the floor, and drags him up by his shirt.

“This is your one warning, Pauli. You lay a finger on any of your girls again, and I come back. You don’t want me to come back, do you?”

“You sonofabitch-”

Rude.

Those corners are awful sharp. He’s seen plenty of people make do with less.

Nice that he doesn’t have to, though.

Said corners are just the right size to enter an eye socket, as Pauli finds out the hard way. Jason takes pity and pulls him back off rather than leave him there, but he’s not volunteering to clean the bloody white goop off. The police can do that, when they get here.

“You don’t want me to come back,” he confirms, drops the now-scarcely-conscious man onto the carpet. “So be good, or I won’t be so nice.”

No wisecracks this time. He pats Pauli on the head, careful not to accidentally jam his thumb into the weeping hole, and swipes the cash from the wallet. It needs to go to the people that earned it, after all.


	82. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New and exciting pain! Apparently in Arkham VR you can find a photo of Bruce and Jason actually smiling and there’s a little note on the back and I didn’t need to be happy today.

Jason ends up making a new, not-dorky e-mail to get a hold of Sheila. He’s got two, it’s not that, but one he knows Barbara (and therefore Bruce) monitors, and the other, well…look. Dick made it for him when he was a kid, and…Dick…Dick is Dick. God help him, he thought ‘littlewing@gmail’ was a good idea and by the time Jason actually found out about it, it was too late to do anything.

Oh, well. Everyone hates their first e-mail address. And at least he didn’t come up with that, he had it thrust upon him. It’s something.

He makes a nice, unembarrassing, un-Bat-stalked e-mail and sends a generic ‘hey how are you’. And then promptly pretends to himself that he doesn’t remember doing that and goes to trawl Craigslist for any sketchy-looking ads. You’d think these people would learn that there’s at **least** a sixty-forty shot of a cop or worse answering, but whatever.

So far, there’s not much-lotta people lookin’ for a dom-oh. Ohhh, **that** movie came out last weekend, didn’t it. That explains so much.

He clicks back out and channel-surfs for a bit instead, catches two seconds of a promo for something with a bloody clown and figures fuck it, he’s playing Mario Party even though it cheats worse than Penguin’s professional card players.

He’s getting absolutely wrecked by Goddamn Waluigi when his laptop announces that he’s got mail. He pauses-mid-Goddamn Waluigi gloating pose, how unfortunate-and pulls it over.

She has sent him a…it’s a…cat. She’s sent him a picture of a smiling cat. Is this a thing? Is this referencing something? Is she, perhaps, actually related to Dick?

He’s so confused.

Whatever. A quick Google search says that the cat is a thing. He responds with a piano-playing one and an inquiry about work before shutting off the Gamecube because fuck you, Waluigi.

Now what? He’s not good at this kinda thing, never was even…Before…but now? Haha forget it. He can muddle, a little, when people don’t know things but she knows something, clearly, because Batman tracked her down. She knows enough, and invariably there will be pity because nobody, including himself, knows what to say.

He wraps himself up in the blanket that lives on the couch and wishes somebody had written a manual for ‘how to live your best life after spending a year with a mad clown’. But to be fair, there can’t be that many people who lived to tell the tale.

Heh. There’s that one Gotham-based advice columnist, the one who’s there for the weirdoes with questions like ‘I have a hardcore crush on the Riddler, but I know I shouldn’t, please help me’. He could write to that…no, no, that wouldn’t end well. Some weird Joker cultist might come looking for him.

The computer dings again and he shoves a hand free from the blankets. Another cat, and a ‘thankfully slow day. This is his life now, apparently; communicating with his maybe-long-lost-mother through cat pictures. What a world.

He’s not gonna lie, though, the cats are cute and it’s…they’re a good buffer. They’re making this all a little less awkward.

As it turns out, he may come by his ‘God help the dumbasses’ honestly-Sheila has a biting sense of humor and he knows he shouldn’t laugh at the schmuck who got his dick wedged in a coconut, but…but…he’s sure that guy’s probably the same type to take a shortcut down a dark alley. Hell, for all he knows, he’s saved that exact guy from that exact situation.

Bruce would roll his eyes and rub his nose and say nothing. He was never very good at realizing that yeah, you gotta save people, but sometimes…sometimes they’re in that boat because they’re really fucking stupid.

Or at least, he never told Jason that.

It’s another hour, easy, of light back-and-forth before he makes himself send a ‘I gotta get some sleep, I got the night shift’, shuts the computer off, and burrows into his blanket. Bed’s too far away and he’s comfy here.

For once, he’s out cold in five minutes.

* * *

He lives to regret sleeping on the couch. When he wakes up, it’s late afternoon and he. Is. **Stiff.**

**I regret my life choices.**

Well. Most of them, anyway.

His computer informs him that Sheila sent him a ‘sweet dreams’ e-mail and, um. It’s. It’s been a while and he’s torn between being gobsmacked and feeling stupid for feeling all warm inside.

Catherine used to-well, when she was…healthy…-she used to read to him from an old, falling apart book of Greek myths. Looking back, she did some heavy on-the-fly editing, because it wasn’t until later that he found out that **oh, Hercules killed his whole family** , but she did it and after, she used to kiss his forehead and tell him the same thing. He tried to do it for her, later, but he was never really good at it and she never seemed to notice.

He did it anyway.

Stretching gets several nasty pops out of his spine and hips, but he can now move a little easier. He wants a smoothie.

He’s just finished making it when there’s a knock on his door and he frowns, tries to remember if he ordered anything recently. No…so…

It turns out to be Mz. Melinda May, armed with Snickerdoodles. Hell yes.

“Hey, Triple-M.”

“Hey, honey.” She shoves the plate at him. “I don’t trust you not to eat.”

“I do!” he protests, moving out of the way so she can come in. “I just made a smoothie! I made Jambalaya last night!”

That was a bad thing to say. She cocks an eyebrow at him and asks, voice deadly calm, “Did you put a splash of Tabasco in it?”*

Shit. He knew he forgot something.

“No?”

“Boy, I told you once, I told you a hundred times…”

“I spaced! I got distracted by something outside!”

She sighs and shakes her head.

“I’m not staying, it’s my bridge night and those old bitches are going down in **flames**.” Some part of him is, and probably always will be, amused and terrified that she swears like that. “But you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Thanks for the cookies.”

“Hm.” She hobbles into the hall, muttering darkly to herself about, “No Tabasco…absolute disgrace…” and he shuts the door. Shower, then cookie.

…

No. Cookie first. So it doesn’t go stale or anything. Can’t be too careful, after all.

 

 

 

*Seriously, guys, a teeny-tiny splash in there gives it a little extra umph and it’s niiiiice. Put it in with the stock, right before you set everything to boil, and thank me later.


	83. Harley Quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, in the, ah, Sad Flashbacks, Jason doesn’t change too-too much. Well. That’s kind of a lie, he does, he gets knocked all to hell, but his costume’s still recognizable, his hair doesn’t reach ‘WHAT YEAR IS IT’ status or anything like that. Now, you could go, ‘Batman is basically having the worst fever hallucination of all time’ (and add in a bit of ‘we need him to be recognizable’ on the part of the developers).
> 
> Or you could be me. Harley…Harley is dangerous, but she’s also been shown to have a glimmer of sanity and redemption potential left in there. So. Here we are.

Jason’s asleep.

Or. He **was** asleep, in that blessed blacked-out place where nothing hurts.

But then the fire alarm went off.

At least, that was his initial thought when he was startled back to consciousness, jerking and being reminded that **DON’T PUT WEIGHT ON THAT ANKLE** and **GIVE YOUR SHOULDERS A BREAK**. He can’t do either and he ends up slumped forward, trying to keep his balance on his good ankle and barely able to care, anymore, that his shoulders are screaming.

**Plik. Plik. Plik.**

Blood, half-watered down with sweat, drips off his hair and onto the tiles below. And then it clicks that hey, he can see the tiles. And that’s not a fire alarm, that’s…

Oh.

It’s one of **those** days, the ones where Harley’s…in a good mood. She never feels bad enough for him to help him, not really, but sometimes, usually when Joker’s been a real dick to her, she comes down here and sends the guards away and gets him cleaned up. Well, as best she can, anyway.

He hates these days.

“Good mornin’, sunshine!” Yeah, no amount of makeup can cover that bruise on her cheek, but she’s tried her best. And he hates himself for it, because of what she’s done and what she continues to do,

**(“YOU’RE TAKIN’ MISTAH J AWAY FROM ME!”)**

but he feels sorry for her anyway.

Not sorry enough to play along, though.

“Fuck off.”

He regrets his timing if nothing else-she’s stripping off her gloves and the black one snaps across his cheek, reopening a cut there and falling away with blood dripping off the fingertips.

“Don’t you take that tone with Mama.” She tosses the glove away and sets the unsullied red one down gently on the cart. “Drop ‘im, boys.”

Dumb and Dumber appear out of nowhere and one of ‘em-Dumb, feels like-gets up behind him. There’s a clinking noise and then he’s falling, landing hard on the tiles and jarring ribs that haven’t healed right. His wrists are still zip-tied and honestly, it doesn’t matter anyway-he can barely move, let alone make an escape attempt.

He tries to straighten himself out, at least, and Dumber looms over him, baseball bat in hand-

“Beat it, boys.”

“But-”

“I’ll call ya if I need ya!” Harley skips over to give Dumber a kiss on the cheek. “Pinky promise.”

They leave, tantalizing ray of light vanishing as they slam the door, and he’s still here, with the single bulb shining down and **everything hurts.**

Now that they’re gone, Harley’s smile drops like a melting snowman and she crouches down, pulling a bucket of suds over. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this, it only keeps him alive longer and he wants this all to **stop**.

“No-”

“I’m just gonna clean ya up!” she says, and she’s not smiling but she still sounds…happy…and it’s wrong, it’s all so wrong. “Hold still, baby bird.”

No. No, no, **no** , he can’t do this, he doesn’t want to do this anymore-

He scrambles backwards, or tries to-with one leg out of commission and his shoulders barely working, he gets maybe six inches before he drops. Harley shakes her head, drags the bucket closer, and fishes a sponge out of it. He barely has time to squeeze his eyes shut before it squelches against his hair, soap creeping down his face and catching in stinging cuts. One, a gash across his nose, burns like fire and he clenches his teeth and tries to scrunch his face up to get some relief.

“Aww, this doesn’t hurt! Hold still.”

She’s too close. She’s too close, she’s touching him and everything hurts. His nerves are sanded down to the point that **air** hurts, sometimes, and he doesn’t want this, he just wants this all to stop.

It does not stop. Once his hair’s sopping wet, she tosses the sponge back in the bucket with a heavy **SPLOP!** and digs her fingers against his scalp. They’re cold and sharp and he tries, once more, to pull away. All that gets him is a flick behind the ear.

“Stop that. Doncha wanna be less of a mess for when Mistah J comes back?”

‘No.”

“Aww, yeah, ya do, you just don’t know it yet!” She hums a few bars of some children’s song (‘Wheels on the Bus’, maybe?) and keeps rubbing her fingers around his head. The soap suds, or at least the ones that drip by his eyes, are reddish-black and speckled with who knows what. Grime. Bits of scabs. Both, probably.

He doesn’t realize how fast he’s breathing until Harley says, unexpectedly gentle, “In on seven, hold for five, out for six.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants to just stop breathing altogether, but now that she’s put the words in his head he can’t **not** do it.

He hates her for this. She won’t help him, she says she’s sorry, but then she turns back around and tries to force a bleach smoothie down his throat for takin’ Joker’s attention from her an’-

“Hush, hush, baby, don’t you cry, Mama’s gonna sing you a lullabye,” she croons, and then there’s a lukewarm washcloth scrubbing gently across his face. He realizes a minute later that he’s crying, sort of-tears are slipping under swollen lids and joining the suds in their journey down his face.

Alfred.

Alfred used to do this. He remembers, hazy as a dream, comin’ out of a brutal beating from some freak called Crazy Quilt, and Alfred had been there, fingers rubbing little circles through the terrycloth, and it’d felt so good.

If he keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t breathe, he can think, for a minute, that that’s the case here. That the last few months have been an awful dream and that he’s home, safe and cared for and going to be all right.

And then Harley ruins it.

“Now I can see your smilin’ face!” she says brightly, voice **just** this side of strained. “But you’re not smilin’! C’mon, Robin, you’re s’posed ta. Batsy don’t smile **ever** , so you gotta do it for him.”

No.

There’s a different kind of pain at the mention of Bruce. Bruce, who should have come by now, unless-no. No, he’ll come. He’ll come, somebody’ll crack and spill the beans or he’ll find his way down here.

He has to. He does it for everyone else, he’ll come for Jason.

Won’t he?

The washcloth digs into the barbed wire marks at his neck and he whines, tries to lift his arms in defense. They stay stubbornly against his stomach, muscles twitching when he tries to get them to move.

“Shh, baby birdie. I gotta getcha cleaned up so’s ya don’t die! You don’t wanna die, do ya?”

Better than this.

Unfortunately, Harley takes his non-response as the **yes** that it was and the washcloth gets flung into the bucket. Before he can…do anything, really…, she’s dragged him up

**OWOWOWOWOWPLEASE**

and shaken him hard enough to make his teeth rattle in his skull.

“You don’t get ta die!” she shrieks, sudden and **angry** , and when he forces his eyes open, she’s clearly **distraught.** “You don’t get ta die just ‘cause you wanna! Robins don’t die!”

She’s working herself up to something, he can tell, and he’s struck with the sudden mental picture of her slamming his head against the floor until it cracks open like a coconut.

And right then, he realizes that he doesn’t want to die. Not yet, not down here, **not like this.**

He tries to jerk away from her and succeeds, only to promptly collapse back to the tiles. Then she’s on him, hauling him back up and-

-into a. A hug?

A hug. His arms are now pinned against his torso and her fingers are digging into tears in the suit and pressing into cuts ‘n bruises. Struggling only makes her hold on tighter and he settles for staying as still and silent as possible.

“Ya gotta keep smilin’ for Mistah J, Robin,” she whispers, greasy lipstick smearing against his ear. “Ya gotta. He don’t like frowny faces unless it’s B-man.”

She lets him go, props him against the nearest wall, and brings the bucket over. When she plunks it down, water sloshes out of the sides. It’s already red.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see anything anymore and this time, Harley doesn’t try to chit-chat. Just crouches in front of him and continues scrubbing him off. When he risks peeking, she’s got tears running down her cheeks too, smudging her makeup and revealing how purple that bruise really is.

And he hates himself for feeling sorry for her.

THE END


	84. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all come for me with pitchforks, DC did it first, and then they proceeded to ignore it forever after because it’s easier (?), so direct your righteous fury at them.
> 
> I’m sorry, though.

Jason and Sheila e-mail back and forth for about a week before she says that she has Thursday off so if **he** has Thursday off does he want to meet for lunch again?

Last time wasn’t bad. Not a lot of staring or people or anything. He can…he can probably do it again. And it’s a few days away still, so he has time to psyche himself up or, worst case scenario, fake his death and move to Canada.

And it’s been a week and she hasn’t pulled out the Pity Card on him yet and maybe…maybe this’ll all work out okay. She might never be Mom, because Catherine’s always gonna be Mom, but…but she could be Mother, maybe. He can see that in the distant (or not-so-distant?) future.

But he’s not going to rush into things, that’s what got him here in the first place. Patience, grasshopper.

Thursday rolls around and he hasn’t faked his death and moved to Canada, so he has no choice but to put on jeans and a hoodie and resign himself to a couple of hours, easy, of no sunglasses and no e-book shield.

Sorry, any small children who might come out of this traumatized.

Okay. He brings his Kindle anyway, and his sunglasses for the journey, and sticks to his normal Civilian Weaponry-couple’a knives, one pair of brass knuckles tucked into a hidden pocket in his hoodie. Last thing he needs is for someone to pick up a bullet, match it to the Red Hood’s, and come knocking on his door. His luck is bad enough that’s exactly what would happen.

Besides, it’s noon on a Thursday, and even in Gotham that’s a slow hour. Bank robbers gotta eat, too.

The monorail ride there is literal Hell (three fighting couples, two crying kids and old man with no personal spaaaaace!) and he’s literally gasping for air when he stumbles out of the car. He likes people. Honest. If he legitimately hated them all, he wouldn’t risk his life to help them. But interacting with them…he could do without that, mostly.

Whatever. Whatever. It’s over, he lived, he’s had worse.

(And no, he doesn’t hear faint cackling in his head, and that’s **final.** )

It’s windy today, the type of wind that buffets people every which way and is determined to keep his hood off his head. He fidgets with the drawstrings until it’ll stay and buries his hands in his pockets. Wind sucks. He can **feel** pollen and dust and Gotham Grime being blown onto his skin.

“Jason!”

Is he there already?

Sheila…looks a lot more haggard than she did before. He tries to remember if she’d mentioned being horribly busy, doesn’t think she did, and figures that to be fair, he hasn’t mentioned the bruise that goes halfway up his back.

She smiles, her awkward driver’s license smile, and waves. Yeah, she doesn’t…it must’ve been a long week, or maybe a rough drive or something. She looks tired.

“Hi.” He’s not sure what to call her, still. Miss Haywood is too disconnected, Sheila’s too personal, and it’s way, **way** too soon for Mother. Names are a pain. “I’m not late, am I?” He knows he’s not. “Monorail was packed.”

“So was the subway. Can I…?”

Her arms are half-out and he figures she’s asking for a hug. He can do a hug, as long as it’s a **short** hug.

“Yeah. Thanks for the warning.”

Holy crap, she feels frail. But to be fair, barring Dick’s tackle-hug, everyone’s felt frail since…since. So it could just be him. Hugs are weird now.

**(“HUG YOUR DADDY!”)**

No. Not today. Everything’s fine.

It’s a sort-of short hug, short enough, anyway, and he wonders, abstractedly, if a day will ever come that he’s used to that sort of thing again. If it even matters whether he does or doesn’t.

It does. Of course it does. And the day will come, in time, and he’ll be better, be normal, be what people want him to be.

Little steps.

* * *

They’ve fallen into a companionable silence and for **once** Jason’s not jumping whenever someone walks by in a purple sweater or anything when Sheila forces her lips out from between her teeth and says, “I know you were Robin.”

Well. That’s, uh, there’s that out of the way.

“Yeah.” There’s clearly no point in denying it. She probably put it together when Batman came knocking. “For a little while, yeah. I was.” He tastes blood, wonders how long he’s been doing that, and wishes he had gum. Or a mint. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right off, I just…old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Oh God, no, no, I didn’t mean-” She takes a drink. Her hands are shaking, **she’s** shaking and he doesn’t know what’s wrong. “I just. I thought I should probably make it clear that I did know, so you wouldn’t…I know I was absent, but I don’t want…you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide things from me.”

Oh. That’s. He doesn’t know what to say. Bruce, God knows, has the emotional capabilities of a Himalayan Salt Lamp. Thankfully Jason hadn’t been the type to go through crushes every two weeks, or he probably would have been in Hell. He certainly wouldn’t have…it’s not like he would have shut down the conversation, but sharing and caring? That would have been awkward and best not repeated. Alfred was the go-to for that sorta thing.

All right, then. Since they’re dropping sudden bombshells ‘n all…he has to know.

“You worked for Joker.” There. It’s out. He said it.

And now he kinda regrets it-the self-loathing on her face is a pretty good match for his own, and he can’t tell himself it’s anything less than deep, deep wishing to have made better choices.

“I did.” She straightens up, begins tearing apart a piece of bread on her plate. “Briefly. I’m not proud, but he had a line to my mother, knew where she lived, knew her schedule…knew.” She swallows hard. “Knew she had to rubber-band her jam jars because she couldn’t open them otherwise. I panicked. But it was only for a couple of months-pills, he wanted pills, as much as I could get him. And then he just…went away. I don’t know what he did with them.”

Honestly, after everything, he can’t…he doesn’t have the right to say much. And honestly? There was that one guy, who accidentally cut the fucker off in traffic and **couldn’t get away from him.**

And look at him. The first man he killed, that wasn’t…oh, sure, he probably had it coming, at least a little, but Jason wasn’t thinking about that or considering it like he does now, he just…he wanted to kill Bruce. Because that was right and reason at the time even though he knows it’s insanity now.*

No, he can’t say much.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and it’s suddenly easier to look at his hands. “I didn’t…that sounds awful.”

“No.” She tips his chin up and it’s an effort not to pull away and to remember that it’s fingers, warm human fingers, and not the pointy end of a crowbar against his skin. “You deserved to know. It’s only fair.”

Truth be told, it’s a relief to know that she hadn’t…yeah, technically she could’ve…maybe done something different, but she hadn’t wanted to work for him. She wasn’t like the ones he’d christened Dumb and Dumber that…they enjoyed that kinda work.

Lunch is finished in relative silence after that, though, and he’s wondering what’s going to happen now when she rifles through her purse and swears.

“Damn…I meant to grab an old photo album I wanted to show you, with some old family pictures and things.”

Pictures of Willis? Yeah, he’s good. Pictures of other people might be interesting, though.

“Next time?”

“My apartment’s a few blocks over.”

Something feels off. He’s paranoid, he knows he’s paranoid, but something…she’s been shaky and weird all afternoon and he doesn’t…

**Calm the fuck down, you freak out when someone window-shops for too long!**

“Is everything…is everything okay?”

Or maybe something is wrong-she pulls a napkin over and there’s suddenly a pen in her hand.

“I really do want you to see these pictures, Jason,” she says, but her hand is moving and there’s the ever-so-faint **skrit-skrit** of pen on paper. “I swear you got my mother’s eyes.”

The napkin slides over to him and he glances down. Her handwriting’s spikey and awful-doctor writing to the bone-but his is no better and he can read it well enough.

**An old colleague has been hanging around the hospital lately.**

Oh.

That explains a bit.

“Sure.”

Her shoulders drop and she crumples the napkin, nails picking it into shreds.

“I’m sorry to do this to you,” she says softly, nearly too soft for him to hear, and he’s quick to shake his head.

“No, no, I don’t mind, I’m glad you…if there’s anything I can do to…”

Shit, she looks like she’s going to start crying and that is indeed **PANIC** in his throat. Tears are not good.

“You’re a good boy.” Her voice is watery but there are no tears to be seen. Thank Jesus. “I promise next time we have lunch it’ll be normal.”

Oh, good, things haven’t plummeted down to fiery Hell because of all the revelations flying around.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” he says, and whoops that’s his ‘all will be well, citizen, never fear!’ voice. But it must work, because the about-to-cry look disappears. “Um. Do you wanna…it looks like it’s gonna rain, should we get going?”

And so they do.

* * *

The wind has picked up and it smells like rain. He’s not looking forward to patrol later.

The wind’s not so bad, though, to stop Sheila from lighting up with a self-depreciating, “I know I’m a doctor and should know better, but I honestly don’t care.”

“I can’t really say anything.” He holds up his own pack and rattles it before pulling one out. It’s not as calming as it usually is and he doesn’t know why.

Eh. It’s been a long day, that’s all. He’s not used to interacting with people on a personal level anymore, which is his own fault and probably not necessarily a good thing.

The first few drops have started to fall when they arrive at her building-big, square, and simplistic. She fishes out her keys while they’re in the elevator (which smells like new car, for some reason).

The hallway is deserted. It’s a little creepy, to be honest-his own building might be crap, but there’s always activity. And then, of course, there was Arkham’s hallways, or what he could hear of them. Noisy. Always noisy. But this? Wayne Manor was silent like this. It unsettled him then and it unsettles him now. Call him a city boy, whatever, but he needs noise.

The brass knuckles and knives in his jacket are warm and comforting and he knows he’s not gonna need ‘em, but they make up for this creepy-ass silence.

Sheila opens the door and motions him inside. It’s dark inside-blackout curtains, probably-but he can hear the rain. It smells like new car in here, too, and he wonders, off-handedly, why-

-it’s not empty. He’s walked into one too many ‘empty’ buildings to be very, very attuned to the sound of somebody breathing. Okay. Be calm, back out and shut the door.

He’s about to do exactly that when the light switch clicks and bathes the whole place in stark white. White walls, white floors, white furniture.

Which only makes Harley Quinn stick out like a sore thumb in all that red and black.

“BAY-BEE!” She could never hope to match Joker’s grin, but she gives it a good go, stretching her makeup. Okay. Change of plans. Get Sheila out of here (and preferably out of the building), deal with Quinn. “It’s been a whiiiiile!”

He takes in the mallet leaning against the couch and the shotgun (are those fuzzy dice? Really?) in her hands and comes to the conclusion that **great, she’s riding the crazy train.**

But maybe she hasn’t seen Sheila yet. Where’s that goddamn light switch?

He moves, only a little, only to feel the unmistakable press of a gun against his lower back.

“Don’t. Move.”

And the world drops out from under him.

No. No, no, no, she said she quit, it was over, she said they’d let her go, she said-

The door shuts. He twists so he can still see Quinn in his peripheral. Sheila’s face is a blank mask-no tears, no joy, no nothing. Just quiet determination and he doesn’t understand, she said…

“Mom?” The word feels thick and wrong in his mouth, but maybe…maybe she’s brainwashed or hypnotized or something, maybe she doesn’t…isn’t…

“Sorry, kid.” The words are harsh but her tone isn’t. Quinn giggles in the background but she sounds so far away and Sheila’s still pressing a gun against him. “It was you or me, and, well…it had to be you.”

What?

“Aww, come to mama, baby!” Quinn giggles again before straightening up and scowling. **“Now.”**

His feet drag him forward, sneakers scuffing against the white carpet an’ Heaven’s s’posed ta be white, innit, so why does this feel like Hell and what’s going on she said she **said** -

For once horrible, desperate second, he wants Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t…yeah, he’d thought, at first, that he’d left him but he knows that he didn’t, he really didn’t, he just…

Bruce wouldn’t have pulled a gun on him, he wouldn’t and God, if he’d just fucking **talked** to him-

“I did what you wanted, Quinn.” Sheila’s voice is so, so flat and is this all she wanted from the beginning? Is it? “Now call your man.”

Quinn doesn’t even look at her. She’s looking at Jason like she always did-like she’s torn between wanting to rip his head off and wanting to wrap him in a blanket and keep him.

This is his own goddamn fault, he just thought…just once, just **once** -

“Quinn!” Desperation now, and the gun wobbles against his hoodie as she steps out from behind him. “I did what you said! Call your man!”

Okay. Okay.

He forces himself to take a few deep breaths that taste like that last cigarette outside and says, voice as steady as he can make it, “Let her go, Harley. Leave her alone, I’ll. I’ll do what you want, just. Just let her go.”

“Aww, look at you!” Her pigtails sway and he finds himself oddly hypnotized by the movement. “I knew ya had to be Robin for a reason.”

Yeah. Yeah, he was Robin and that’s all he’ll ever be, the one that fucked up.

“Please, Harley.”

“Nyeh…” She adjusts her grip on the gun, finger dancing near the trigger, and looks down at her knuckles. “Eeny, meanie, miny, moe, catch a Batman by the toe. If he hollers, let ‘im go, eeny…meanie…miny…moe!”

He sees it before she does it, but there’s no time-he’s moved maybe half a centimeter before the gun goes off-

-and Sheila.

Falls.

His ears are ringing. They’re ringing and everything’s so white except **her** , all blonde and blue and so fucking red because Harley didn’t miss and if he’d been quicker, he should have been-

“Aww, don’t be sad!” Harley’s not alone, of course she’s not. He should have known from the start stupidstupidstupid. “Doncha know what happens to people who know too much?”

Her eyes are open. They’re open and they’re looking at him like this is his fault and it is if he hadn’t…

S’like Joker said, once.

**“Good boys know how to lay down and DIE.”**

“Mistah J had a spot for ya, baby.” Huh? “But you up an’ left us before it was time! So since it’s his birthday-” The fucker has no birthday he just appeared one day too evil for Hell. “-I thought I’d get my puddin’ somethin’-” She winks. “Real nice.”

And they’re on him.

Harley’s goons are dumb, but they’re also big and they manage to drag him down for a minute before he gets a knife out of his sleeve and drives it into the nearest jaw.

“Andre!” Yeah, Andre ain’t comin’ back from that any time soon. “I thought we taught you manners!”

He reclaims his knife and scrambles back up and okay okay maybe he can get outta this-

**WHAM!**

Lights out.

 

*Incident detailed in the earlier one-shot ‘I Didn’t Mean To’.


	85. Can't Kill You, Still Need You (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prequel comics have Jason killing…quite a few…villains, so I’m just gonna figure Edward was important to Operation Savior. And not just by paying for it.
> 
> (Or, my little revenge for all the crap I took. ‘Come to the orphanage, detective!’ HERE I COME, MOTHERFUCKER, RIDDLES SOLVED AND READY TO BEAT YOU AND YOUR ROBOT SUIT TO A BLOODY PULP. FOR JUSTICE.)

“You’re going to want to beat his head against the wall until you crack his skull open,” the boss is saying. “It’s going to be very, very tempting. You will see it behind your eyelids. Whatever you do, **don’t you dare.** ”

Antoine rolls his eyes when the Knight’s not looking. The Riddler can’t be that bad. The guy’s a puzzle freak. Probably a little socially awkward, like a lot of uber-smart people. Definitely a dick, because he hates Batman and is funding an army to come and kill him. The boss is just being a drama queen, that’s all.

“Yessir.”

The Knight sighs and looks at the green corridor.

“Remind me that I said we still need him if I try to kill him. It might be hard, but that is literally your only job today.”

Yeah. Sure. ‘Only job’, what a joke. Antoine signed on for officer duties-y’know, keeping an army in line, training recruits, all that good stuff. His ‘job’ is that plus: Arkham Knight Translator, Batman Training Dummy, Moral Support, Driver, Saving the Knight from Himself, and probably a bunch of other stuff that he’s not remembering right now.

Whatever. This won’t be that bad.

“Whatever you say, sir.”

And so they go down the green corridor (every single one of these bastards is **themed** , why? The hell, man?) and into an elevator with some sorta spider-robot sitting on the wall. There’s also a video monitor that flickers to life when the doors slide shut behind them.

The Riddler is…not that impressive. Even Crane, who’s literally falling apart, is scary as shit. This guy? Bedhead, cracked goggles, and what Antoine first thinks is a Hawaiian shirt-the short-sleeved ‘Dad-bod’ variety. He’s mistaken. It’s got question marks, not flowers.

Pfft. Okay. So the guy’s eccentric. At least Antoine’s not here to, like, drag the boss out of the line of fire if the shit hits the fan.

“You are five minutes and ten seconds late.”

Okay. Antoine mentally upgrades him to ‘Middle-Sized Dick’. Middle-sized because he hasn’t threatened them or tried to kill them.

“Were you unable to follow even the simplest of directions?” The man tosses his head and leans against what looks like a computer desk. “I tried to write them at an average fourth-grade level, just for you.”

Actually, the Knight made them stand outside for five extra minutes. Antoine is beginning to see that he’s been dragged into the Battle of the Pettiest.

If they get thrown into a death trap, he’s making damn sure that the boss knows who to blame. Damn. Sure.

“Never mind. I should have known to try for an average second-grade level…my mistake.” The Riddler-the PowerPoint said he was big on that-smiles. Well. Sort of. It looks like a school picture smile-stretched and awkward and very much ‘I hate you and it’s time that I sue’.

Aaaand the song for Small World’s in his head. He came out to do his job and he’s honestly feeling so attacked right now.

“I’d like you to direct your attention to the elevator floor.” What. “Even your puny minds should be able to comprehend that it is an _electric panel!_ ” There’s a maniacal giggle and Antoine takes it back, The Riddler is, in fact, a Giant Dick. “So you’re going to stand very still while I go over the rules and regulations for this visit-”

**BLAM!**

There’s now a bullet in the screen. Antoine stares at the Knight in undisguised horror.

“Sir?”

“Rule one: shut up.”

He’s going to get them killed, Jesus Christ, Antoine should’ve taken in the outfit and the Batman-aimed rage and gone, ‘thanks for the offer, but you’re fucking crazy and I’m not down with that’.

Too late now. He knows it’s too late now, knows full well that if the Knight said, ‘we’re going to Antarctica’, he’d pack a bag and buy a parka and bitch the whole way, but he’d go.

The robot’s back opens up to reveal a speaker. There’s hissing and spitting and finally an angry, _“You’ll regret that.”_

“Sure, Eddie. Just keep tellin’ yourself that.”

_“You sorry little-”_

The elevator doors open. The room beyond is freezing and filled to the brim with computers and humanoid robots. It also smells like an Office Max. The Riddler nearly blends in with all the green, but his voice carries just fine.

“- _wish_ you were dead, you ill-mannered-”

The Knight stops and murmurs, “Watch this.”

No. No. This is bad, this is potentially catastrophic-

This is beyond Antoine’s control. As though everything’s in slow-motion, he watches the Knight reach over and tap the ‘shift’ key on the nearest keyboard.

“REAGH- _don’t touch that!_ ” In a frankly impressive display of agility, the man vaults over two robots and one chair to reach them. “These are highly delicate machines-not that I’d expect you to understand that-and they _do not_ appreciate being-being _tapped at random!_ ”

Antoine takes back every thought he’s ever had about the Knight being a drama queen. The Knight is a drama **princess** compared to this guy, holy shit.

**Sorry boss, you’ve been dethroned.**

He knows it’s not possible to know for sure, but he swears the Knight raises an eyebrow. Swears.

“Mm-hm.”

The Riddler stands there, breathing heavily and clearly pissed, before snatching up a glowing green question mark. Antoine knows what that is, that’s a Batman-lure-thingy. It’s impressive, he’ll admit-everyone knows that if you’re not Batman, and you touch it, you’ll get a shock.

The Knight looks like Batman. Kind of. Maybe he can pick one up…no, no, they’re probably programmed to detect the presence of a cape, and the boss has seen _The Incredibles_ and doesn’t have one of those.

Oh, well.

“Come with me.”

Antoine glances at the floor. It does not appear to be electrified.

The little robots swarm around them. They’re…they’re kinda cute. In an ugly way. They’re red-ish-pink and blue and green and maybe five feet tall? Antoine wonders if he can steal one. If he frames it to the boss as, ‘we could use it for, uh…tactical purposes’…maybe…

IT COULD BE THE MASCOT. Yes! They don’t have a mascot. They have a logo, but no mascot*. They could paint the logo on it and give it a little baseball hat and call it Chito. He’ll grab a blue one, keep things nice ‘n uniform.

Now, which one looks like a Chito?

They follow the Giant Dick to the other side of the room, to a spiderweb board including pictures of Batman, Bigfoot, and Abe Lincoln. Antoine doesn’t even pretend to get any of it. He’s coming to realize that these people are a special class of crazy.

The Riddler places the Batman-lure beneath the web and says proudly, “Computer!”

There’s a whirring and a woman’s mechanical voice says, “Good afternoon -The Ridder-. You are looking very handsome today.”

Is this guy for real? Really? Really?

The Riddler preens a bit and Antoine desperately thinks of naked grandmas to try and keep a straight face. The boss is lucky, with that helmet and all. Maybe there’s something to it after all.

“I know.” Naked grandmas are not working. Um. Um. That one guy that got half-eaten by a drone, early on! Yeah. Intestines aaaallll tangled up in the gears, yes. “Computer, run program ENIGMA.”

“Error: do not understand -run-.”

Helmet or no helmet, there’s nothing that can disguise the snort of laughter. The Riddler makes an angry-cat-noise and visibly counts to ten.

“I didn’t ask for your input, cretin.”

Antoine can just **hear** the Knight’s grin when he says, “I didn’t offer it, Eddie.”

“You thought it.”

It’s maybe a little mean that Antoine appreciates the boss being on the other end of that statement. Just this once.

The huff is unmistakably annoyed.

“I **thought** that laughing lunatic would have taught you some manners-”

And just like that, the shit hits the fan.

Antoine blinks and the Riddler is being tossed into his squadron of drones. There’s an alarmed mechanical beeping and an infuriated, “You imbecile!”

“Boss,” he says, because this is his job today, “boss, you said we still need him.”

“I take it back.”

“You didn’t specify that as acceptable, sir. You said we still need him.”

There. He did his bit. Really, if the Knight’s dead set on murdering the guy, there’s not much Antoine can do.

“Get those programs up and running, Riddler.” They’re leaving? That’s it? What’s going on-oh. No, there’s another room. Okay. “Sometime today.”

“I will not be bullied into-”

The Knight draws his sidearm and y’know, Antoine’s…eighty percent…sure the safety’s still on. There’s no reason to open his mouth again.

**“Now.”**

“No better than Batman-”

**BLAM!**

SHIT SHIT SHIT-oh.

Riddler’s fine. There’s a bullet hole in a bowler hat hanging on the far wall, but the man himself is unharmed. And, more importantly, silent. Visibly fuming, and probably plotting their ugly demise, but silent.

“Keep talking, Eddie. Go ahead.”

“Enjoy your little power play while it lasts, **Knight** ,” the Riddler spits. “Now move, if you want to see your programs, you’ll need to get out of my way.”

And right then, just for a second or two, Antoine figures that y’know? This guy is dangerous.

Just like everybody else. God dammit. Why can’t there be one, just one, that’s not a homicidal maniac, huh? That’s all he asks!

“You, uh, you okay, boss?”

“Hrm.”

He’s gonna take that as a ‘I’m not going to bludgeon him to death with a robot’ and just let this go.

Now. Which one of these looks like a Chito?

THE END

* _Eh, technically the boss was the mascot, but don’t tell him that.-Antoine_


	86. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn’t…exactly dub Jason as the most reliable narrator right now. He’s in physical and emotional shock and he’s probably got a concussion. So. Be gentle with him, he’s not All There at the moment.
> 
> He should be grateful for that brand, though. Y’know. Given the circumstances.

The lights do not come back on.

His eyes are open. He doesn’t know when he opened them, but they are open and it is dark and his head hurts.

Where…

**SheilaHarleySheila’sdeadshe’sdeadshe’sdead**

**Mom?**

**I just thought just once just once that someone’d**

**Please**

It’s hard. He’s on something hard and wooden, he can feel the cheap slats against his spine. He remembers. He remembers getting bogged down by goons and clawing his way back out and then sudden pain and-

-where is he?

His hands are folded across his chest and when he unfolds them to feel around they smack into more wood.

**No. No, no, please-**

Forcing himself to remain calm, he pats around him. Wood. Wood, wood, so much wood, and i-it smells like. Like dirt. Mud. It’s freezing and it smells like mud and God no please-

Okay. Okay. Shallow, even breaths, he can’t have been…been down here for long and the wood feels cheap, he can. He can get himself out. He has to. He has to he has to or he’s gonna die down here forgotten like he was before PLEASE-

**Settle down.**

Maybe that’s his own voice in his head, or m-maybe it’s Catherine Todd’s.

**Mom, please-**

Whoever’s it is, it’s right. Okay. Assess. Robin Lesson one-oh-one, assess the situation.

The cheap wood is creaking. Bits of dirt are falling in around him here and there, especially when he moves. He has no more knives, but his brass knuckles are safe in that little pocket.

He squirms a bit until his shirt’s over his mouth and nose and smacks his funny bone trying to get the damn things out of his hoodie, but he gets them in the end.

He doesn’t have nearly enough room to swing as hard as he’d like, but the wood’s not built to last and it splinters almost immediately, creates a gash that’s just big enough to claw at.

It hurts at first. One nail, one that he smacked with a hammer by accident a few days ago, catches an edge and rips straight off. But now dirt is pouring in, pressing down and he **can’t breathe**.

Then he’s in the mud, squishy worms and hard roots catching in his fingers and he can’t see, either,

**See no evil hear no evil breathe no evil please somebody help me-**

and a root pulls his shirt off his face and something squirms down his throat.

There’s rain above him, turning the dirt to slick mud that just keeps slipping through his fingers.

**God no please not like this not like this-**

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe and he knows that not a foot away is air-salvation- **life** , but he can’t breathe **now** and-and-

**Please not like this-**

And his fingers finally breach the topsoil, scrambling in the mud, blood drying in the wind.

He gets a grip on the grass and hauls himself out, coughing and gasping for freezing air that hurts his throat. But he’s alive.

He’s alive.

* * *

Jason’s abruptly yanked off-balance when someone nearly pulls his arm out of its socket. A car zooms by, honking angrily. Where…when did he…

“-uck, you idiot, did you never learn to look both ways?”

Huh?

His savior vanishes into the throng of people. He doesn’t. He’d been in the park. He remembers. He’d been in the park, by the…by his…in the grass, and he’d just meant to lie there for a minute. So why is he know in mid-Gotham?

His head hurts-Sheila. Sheila’s apartment. It was near here, he’d meant to…to…

She wanted to show him something. Family photos. But she’s dead, she can’t, and…

S’bright. Tha’s all he knows right now, s’that s’bright ‘n that his hands are hot.

“-ck, something’s come up-Hood. Hood, **fuck** , kid, what happened?”

He’s Hood. He knows that. Red Hood ‘n Robin ‘n that’s all he’ll ever be worth-

Something grabs his sleeve and he’s jerked back to reality. Gotham. City lights, that’s why it’s bright like this. Okay. Okay, he was going…he was…

“C’mon, kiddo, you’re freaking me out a little.”

Dove Marquis. Hot chocolate. Kept him from bleeding out when he was fourteen. Probably won’t…won’t…

**I just thought-**

“Hood!”

Huh?

He blinks a few times and realizes that she’s pulling on his sleeve. Why.

“C’mon, you’re a mess. What’d you get into, a mulcher?”

He’s not dead, as far as he knows, so…

She pulls on his sleeve again. Oh. He’s not tryin’ to be difficult, he’s not, honest, s’just…

“-ky you didn’t wander into the Narrows like this, who knows what Crane’s people would’a thought-”*

His hands are hot and the rest of him’s just so goddamn cold-

**“Mom?”**

He jerks back without meaning to and Dove swipes for his sleeve again.

“You’re okay, kiddo, you’re gonna be okay… **did** you run into Scarecrow?”

No. No, that would’a been better-

She’s still waiting for an answer. He swallows

**Dirt ‘n leaves ‘n somethin’ movin’ inside’a me**

and tries to speak. His voice doesn’t want to work and he shakes his head instead. The world spins.

“You’re sure?” He manages a nod. “Okay…come on, then, you’re a mess and it’s cold.”

It doesn’t matter, he guesses.

Time flickers and the next thing he’s really aware of is that he’s in a dark apartment.

**NO NO NO NO**

There’s the **click** of a switch. It’s empty. It’s empty. And blue, not white, a-and he can see the city skyline through the window. The drapes aren’t drawn, it’s just nighttime.

“-y here, I gotta do a serial killer check.”

He can-

But she’s gone, leaving him by the door. He should go before this can go wrong

**Again**

but by the time he thinks he can manage stairs (no elevator too close too tight not now **not now** ), Dove’s pulling on his sleeve again. He follows her.

“Okay-okay, honey.” Her voice is doing a weird thing. He’s confused. What’s going on? What’s happening is **he** here is- “Just…just sit down, okay? And, uh, maybe don’t touch anything.”

They’re in a bathroom. It’s white, with a duck rug and a hanging fern and a cross-stitch saying, **Don’t do coke in the bathroom.**

He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, and finally realizes why his hands are so hot and (probably) why Dove’s voice is doing the weird thing. Blood’s warm. ‘Specially when it’s pooled around a shit-ton of splinters.

**Can’t breathe can’t breathe somebody help me BRUCE-!**

“Just hold still. Can you do that for me?” He nods, or he means to, and she crouches in front of him and pulls one of his hands away from his ribs. “Good boy…just…just stay real still, I’m gonna try to get these out…”

‘Kay.

He loses track of time, watchin’ the fern (why’s she got a fern, Ivy could…) and then realizes, in a very detached way, that he’s gonna be sick.

He pulls back, the sudden movement makin’ his head spin, and flings the toilet open.

**Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe**

There’s not much in him to heave up. Just dirt (gritty bile) a-and bits of worms that squirm over his tongue and against his teeth and-

A piece of worm bobs in the frothy water and he convulses, thinks distractedly that he’ll never eat spaghetti again. The porcelain’s ice cold against his hands and it feels like his blood’s gluing his skin to the bowl.

“-do, get it all up, there you go…”

He’s not sure if that’s a bug or not. Could be roots, could be legs. Either way, watching it hit the water makes his stomach flip again and he gags, throat and jaw stretching uncomfortably and hot tears pushing themselves out of his eyes and down his nose. There’s nothing left there’s nothing left but the heaving won’t stop-

The toilet flushes and that seems to do it, lets him stop vomiting and sink back against the wall with his head tipped forward, hot, wet gasps brushing past his lips. A plastic cup appears in his line of vision and Dove reaches over to tip his head up, murmuring, “Rinse your mouth out, honey, it’ll help, c’mon.”

Initially, the water just stirs up more grit from behind his teeth, but eventually it runs clear. He’s barely sprawled back against the wall when a warm towel moves over his face and scrubs firmly through his hair. Feels good, and he presses against it because Jesus it’s **warm** and he can’t even shiver right now.

“There we go, kiddo, okay…okay…gimme your hand again, we’ll finish up, huh?” The towel drops to the floor by his knees and his hand’s pulled out of his lap. “Do you remember what happened?”

He wishes he didn’t. Now, with his stomach empty (but still churning is something still alive down there?), things are coming into sharp focus. The fern. The bowl of bloody splinters. The bruises.

**Mom?**

“Harley Quinn,” he mumbles, because she doesn’t have to do this and he owes her that, at least. “Woke up underground.”

She stills, tweezers halfway towards a splinter between his knuckles.

“Is she going to look for you?”

“I don’t think so.” He hopes not he hopes not surely she won’t- “She wasn’t there. When I got out.”

“That’s something.”

Yeah. That’s something.

At some point, she lets his hand go and pulls the other one over instead. Now that the splinters are gone, the heat is more pronounced. So’s the pain.

The pain is not bad enough, however, to stop him drifting off a little, coming to when Dove pulls his jacket half-off with a soft, “You don’t wanna sleep in this, do you, sweetheart?”

Huh?

He squirms out of it anyway, doesn’t even care when it gets flung into the shower with an ear-splitting **WHAP-CLANK!** Without it, it’s colder than ever and he pulls his arms against his chest, finds that his t-shirt is a wet mess, too.

“Okay…my neighbor’s fuck-buddy might be…just stay here, huh? I’ll be right back.”

No, no, not again, please-

But she’s gone. The apartment door opens and closes and he needs to **get out** but he doesn’t think he can even stand up.

His hands have been wrapped up, he notices. Haphazard, a little, but the nail beds are covered. They don’t hurt so much now.

He falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, and is jolted back to awareness by Dove knocking on the doorframe. He pulls his eyelids up, wincing at the light, and sees that she’s got what looks like sweats and a t-shirt in hand. Huh?

“Let’s getcha a little less zombie-like, huh?” Mm. “Think you can manage?”

Uh. He’s not…sure, exactly. He tries picking up the towel, just to see, and manages it. Barely, but enough to determine that yeah, he can get dressed on his own.

‘Least there’s that.

He nods. Dove looks a little less confident than he thinks is fair, but she sets the clothes near him anyway and says, “Anyone I can call for you, kiddo?”

Alfred. He wants Alfred, ‘cause Alfred won’t…he won’t blame him for this,

**Just once I thought I wouldn’t be second choice just this once m’sorry m’ _sorry_ -**

but…but with Alfred comes Bruce ‘n he can’t call Bruce Wayne-

“Batman.” he whispers, ‘cause Alfred won’t let Bruce lecture him either, not now, and…and he wants his dad. He wants Alfred **and** Bruce even though he’ll probably regret it later.

“Okay.”

There’s no way she can call Batman. Doesn’ matter. Maybe he can catch a ride…

But she’s gone before he can take it back and he’s left with what turns out to be purple sweats and some sorta fleece running shirt.

She’d gotten his boots off at some point-he sees them in the shower near his jacket-and that’s…that’s something.

Okay. He can do this.

He’s not sure how he gets out of his jeans, but he manages in the end and **fuck** it’s cold now, like Freeze’s goddamn ice cream truck. His skin’s hardly even wet and at least there’s that but it’s cold…

The sweats are soft. Okay. Halfway there.

He doesn’t remember getting the shirt on. He does, he knows he does because now he’s fiddling with the hem, but he doesn’t remember how. His head hurts.

There’s a knock and he must make a noise because the door opens.

“Think you can stand up?” Huh? “I can’t carry you, honey, but if you can get up, you can crash on the couch until Batman gets here.”

Okay. Maybe. Maybe for a few minutes.

Getting up is hard, but past a certain point falling down sounds like it’s gonna hurt and he promises himself that he won’t. Dove eyes him and says, “If you start falling, I might be able to catch you, but, uh…I kinda doubt it, so please don’t.”

He doubts it, too.

There’s a sheet on the couch. It’s black and worn down enough to be really, really soft. He’s barely made himself comfortable (like that’s hard it’s soft and squishy and **not wood** ) when a heavy blanket falls onto him. He can feel wires and a second later it registers that it’s an electric blanket. It’s already kinda warm.

“There you go, honey…need anything? Water, Tic-Tac?” He shakes his head and draws under the blanket. Now, confronted with **heat** , he’s starting to shiver in earnest. “Okay. I called Jim, he’s gonna turn on that stupid searchlight. You wanna sleep for a bit?”

No no please no because this could be some sorta pre-death hallucination, his brain tryin’ to soothe itself before he suffocates in the dirt, a-and goin’ to sleep might be the end and **this wasn’t what he wanted-**

“She said she was done,” he whispers, because he needs to say it to **someone** and Alfred isn’t here. “She said she was done ‘n I believed her ‘n I shouldn’ ‘ave but-”

“Harley?”

“Sheila.” It kills him to say her name and haha so it should what does it say that he couldn’t save her? “She. She said-”

He gags on phantom soil and swallows, clenches his teeth together tight enough to squeak.

“Shh, baby.” She reaches over and pushes his hair off his forehead-prob’ly checking for fever or something, but… “Calm down, okay? You wanna tell me what happened?”

“She said she was done.” She had she’d **said** ‘n he knows he shouldn’t have believed her but he’d just wanted, just once… “She s-said…m’sorry, m’ **sorry-** ”

He’s pulled upright and held onto, blanket falling to bunch up around his stomach. A hand moves gently across his shoulders and he’s vaguely aware that he’s being rocked back and forth.

“Sh-sh-sh.” But- “This wasn’t your fault, I promise, it doesn’t matter what happened, that fucking clown…it wasn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t ‘ave-”

“Shh.” He shuts up, tries to get his breathing under control. “You’re okay. C’mon, now, just calm down, huh? This wasn’t your fault.”

He pulls away and drops back to the couch, shivering and staring at the ceiling. Dove fixes the blanket and ruffles his hair before straightening up.

“Want the TV on?”

“M’okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Try to sleep, sweetheart, Batman’ll be here soon to get you.”

He doesn’t want to, but everything’s crashing down on him at once and it’s getting hard to keep his eyes open.

After another few minutes, it’s impossible.

* * *

He wakes twice-once, for a couple’a seconds, to Dove running her fingers through his hair and murmuring, “It’s just a nightmare, honey, you’re okay…” and once, later, when he’s pulled into a fireman’s carry.

S’he dead? Maybe he’s dead, ‘n bein’ carried…to wherever he’s s’posed ta end up.

He’s gotta be dead, he decides, ‘cause he hasn’t been carried since before…before, and…

S’warm. He thought death was cold but this is warm. S’okay.

He presses his head against the warmth. All too soon, he’s let go but he’s not falling ‘n there’s some kinda restraint ‘n-

“Jason?”

Huh?

He forces his eyes open. Batman- **Bruce** -is standing there, and he’s in the Batmobile’s stupid roller-coaster-seat.

“B?”

Bruce’s smile is only obvious if you know where to look, but Jason didn’t spend three years searching for it to fail. This is it, then. He’s dead and this is not Bruce, because Bruce doesn’t…after everything he’s done…

He wishes he’d gotten the chance to say good-bye to Alfred.

“Jay-”

Mm-mm. He doesn’t want to talk to Not-Bruce. And, just to make this clear, he decides to pass out.

 

 

*Dove is referencing the end of _Batman Begins_ -I headcanon that there’s people down there that didn’t…get help. Most of the time they’ll leave you alone, but sometimes people go down there and don’t come back. (Crane himself spends quite a bit of time down there-minimal police activity and lots of ‘follow-up appointments’.)


	87. Roots and Leaves, Pt. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason asks after Alfred in one the tapes you find in the game. I have no shame. I’ll admit I was thisclose to crying like a baby when that happened. Though to be fair, could’ve been PMS. Who knows. (Personal opinion: Alfred doesn’t interact with the Arkham Knight because he’d know, and lay out the mother of all guilt trips, and the game would be over.)
> 
> THERE. I gave him nice things. Happy now? (Hey, originally A Death in the Family just gave us the lovely info that he had a five-person funeral. And, y’know. Death. And an escaping murder-clown. :D)
> 
> As always, this arc has an 8tracks playlist.

“-son. Master Jason.”

Fuck, **Alfred’s** dead? The end is extremely fucking nigh.

But, if he’s going to be selfish (which got him into this, you’d think he’d learn)…at least he has company in…wherever this is.

His hands still hurt, though, which he finds very unfair.

“You are no better at feigning unconsciousness than you were at fifteen, sir.”

He’s not tryin’ to…

Why does Death look like his old bedroom. Is this some sorta ‘ease into it’ area?

“There you are.”

“Alfie?”

Alfred hasn’t changed one bit. Jason will bet that his mustache hasn’t even grown, or shed a hair, or **anything.**

“How are you-”

**Alfred.**

He hugs him and he **hasn’t** changed, not one goddamn bit. Alfred hugs him back, one hand cupping his neck and the other moving firmly up and down his spine. Alfred’s here, everything’s gonna be okay, at least for another minute…

The hand on his spine moves and his head’s tilted up with a soft, “Oh, my boy.”

It’s over. Any dignity he had is gone. He presses his face against Alfred’s chest (fabric softener Earl Grey **home** ) and doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not crying. He’s never been able to keep anything from Alfred anyway.

“M’sorry.”

“Oh, my boy,” Alfred says again, and those sturdy hands press against his head and neck. “There is nothing to apologise for.”

He tries to take a few deep breaths, to get himself under control for fuck’s sake, and can’t. He can’t do it anymore.

But Alfred is a literal saint, and he doesn’t try to coax him to talk or to sit up or to do anything at all, even after his jacket must be soaked through. He just sits there, marginally more slumped than he usually is, and rubs a hand in slow, steady circles over Jason’s shoulders.

At some point, he senses a **presence** in the doorway, but before he can straighten up it’s gone again and now, without that motivation, it’s easier to just stay here where it’s safe and warm.

He eventually runs out of tears but his face is now wet and swollen and hot. His nose feels like it’s swollen shut and he’s been reduced to careful, thought-out breaths that rattle in his throat and burn in his chest. Sitting up is too much work.

Alfred props him up anyway and rubs a cool washcloth over his face before letting him take it and hold it against his now-puffy eyelids.

“That’s it, Master Jason.” If Bruce is Sherlock Holmes, then Alfred is Watson. They don’t deserve him. “That’s it. Deep breaths, there we are.”

“M’sorry, Alfie,” he forces out, voice strangled. “M’sorry-”

“That’s enough of that.”

“But-”

“I won’t hear any more of that.” Oh, boy. That’s the ‘you’re on thin ice and should just shut up’ voice. Even now, it’s scary and he doesn’t have the courage to go against it.

A straw presses against his lips-limeade-and Alfred continues, a little gentler now, “I cannot imagine that you purposefully buried yourself for any reason, Master Jason. Am I correct?”

He laughs. He can’t help it. It sounds so **nice** put like that.

“No. No, I…I didn’t. I didn’t.” He is not going to start crying again. He refuses. Sheila flashes behind his eyes, blonde and blue and red, and he presses the washcloth down hard enough to hurt. “I…she s-said. She said she was out. Sh-she said she was out, Alfred, I thought…just once…”

“From the beginning, Master Jason.” Calm, but making it very clear that he doesn’t have a choice. “Who is ‘she’?”

He swallows, knows he’s imagining something squirming at the back of his throat. Alfred waits.

“Sheila Haywood,” he finally whispers. “I…Bruce’s files…she might have been my mother.”

He doesn’t have to look to know Alfred’s got that little frown between his eyebrows, the one that says he’s deeply upset. Jason presses the washcloth tighter against his eyes, sparking colors, and his wrist is tugged at until the colors die off.

“I just…she approached **me** , Alfie, I swear, I didn’t…I just thought…” He swallows again, forces himself to let the washcloth fall to his lap. “M’tired of bein’ second choice, Alfred.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before he’s pulled back down and somehow…folded…so that he’s tucked against Alfred’s chest like he’s thirteen again and still fits.

“Jason Peter Todd,” Aw, shit. “you have **never** been second choice, do you understand?”

But…

Look. He’s very well aware that he wouldn’t be here if Dick hadn’t had that fallout with Bruce. And oh, boy, has he ever learned the Joys of Being the Second Child-‘Dick did this’, ‘Dick did that’, and on and on and **on.** He’s come to terms with that fact, it’s fine, whatever.

But arguing that point (or any point) with Alfred is a Bad Idea.

And. And he’s here, now, because Bruce…Bruce came to pick him up, when he asked. So. That means something, doesn’t it?

His head hurts.

Alfred sighs at his non-answer but lets it go for the time being.

“What happened with Miss Haywood?”

He’s not moving. He’s staying right here until this is all over.

“Some moron tried to hold up the grocery store…”

* * *

Jason feigns sleep for the rest of the day, until Bruce is out on patrol. Sneaking past the Batman isn’t **impossible** , but it’s definitely hard and with his hands almost completely useless, well…

The last thing he wants or needs is a lecture on Trust and Rushing Into Things and Dammit, Jason, This is What Got You Captured by the Joker. He knows that, thanks, Bruce.

(And yeah, okay, he knows lectures are Bruce’s way of saying I Love You, but some people swear a punch to the face is an I Love You, so.)

Sneaking past Alfred, on the other hand…now that really is impossible.

He’s halfway down the stairs when there’s an irritated, **“A-HEM,”** from behind him. Crap.

“I was thirsty?”

Alfred gets this expression that Jason will swear means he’s envisioning smacking him upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper. Yeah. Okay. Game’s up.

“I just…I need some time,” he says, eyes fixed on a knot in the wooden banister. “I can’t face him, Alfred, not now.”

Not for a long time, probably. Not without a massive blow-up on both sides and it’s better if no one else is around to be caught in that crossfire.

And besides. Right now, he just…his apartment may be kinda crappy, but it’s not haunted by a stupid kid who swore up and down that

**“Being Robin gives me magic!”**

**“This is the best day of my life.”**

There’s too many ghosts in this house.

Alfred comes forward and pats his shoulder.

“At least permit me to provide you with a few easy-to-reheat meals.”

“I’m okay-”

“Humor an old man.”

That is a trap. That is a trap, it’s just better to nod and neither protest or nor agree. And he’s got time, before Bruce gets back.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

“Hm.”

He’s ushered towards the kitchen. It hasn’t changed a bit-still homey and warm and with those same comfy stools by the counter. He remembers having after-school snacks there and chattering a mile a minute about ‘so Mister Pierce set his desk on fire in chemistry and it was **so cool** I gotta try that y’think B’ll let me-?’

“If I hear one word about you being out before those hands have healed, there is no power on Heaven or Earth that will spare you, is that clear?”

He believes. He **believes.**

“Yeah.”

“Good.” An icebox appears out of nowhere. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, I, uh…I called an Uber. I didn’t think I could drive.”

“Wise choice.” Alfred sets the icebox down and grips Jason’s arms. “You will always have a home with us, Master Jason. Remember that.”

He is not going to start crying again. He is not.

“Thanks, Alfred.”

* * *

The Uber guy is more interested in his radio than in Jason and that’s just fine. It means he’s not going to pester him, which means that he can twist around to watch Wayne Manor shrink into the distance through back window.

When he gets home, he opens his e-mail. Nothing new, but Sheila’s are still there. He deletes most of them.

But.

He can’t. Even now, after everything, he can’t bring himself to hate her. Not really.

He moves the remaining few to his ‘save it’ folder, where he won’t open them by mistake, and goes outside for a cigarette. Lighting it’s a pain, and there’s a few minutes that he’s terrified that he’s going to light the bandages on his hands on fire, but he manages it, in the end, and leans on the railing to watch the cars go by below.

In another unit, he can hear Mz. Melinda May cackling and a handful elderly voices swearing and demanding she be thrown out. Maybe he’ll go over there tomorrow, make sure she hasn’t downloaded a crap-ton of computer viruses again. (And yeah, okay, he wants to know about the yelling.)

There’s a sudden movement in the shadows across the street and he goes inside, turns on the TV. He’s halfway through an episode of _Chopped_ when a red bar pops up on the bottom saying, **Batman recaptures Harley Quinn, more at eleven.**

A knot in his chest he didn’t realize was there loosens up and he pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Thanks, B.”

THE END


	88. Night Flight (Militia Fic)

Antoine Googles their…clients…on the plane ride back. It’s not like he didn’t do a little research beforehand, but…but. He was not prepared. He’ll admit it. He’ll shout it from the rooftops if it means he doesn’t have to go anywhere near them again.

He leaves safe search on this time. Last time he had it off and got a horrible combination of porn and crime scene photos. He should have known better, but…he’d forgotten he had it on, really.

He’s a little scarred.

This time he gets mug shots and a staff picture from some Arkham event or other with an unmasked (and unmauled, for that matter) Crane, who’s got delicate fingers wound around the stem of a wine glass. Richardson’s arm is looped through his. They’re not smiling.

The Knight drops down next to him with a heavy sigh, laptop closed in his hands. He and Crane had a…a chat before they left. Antoine does not want to know what the chat entailed, but the boss has been oddly subdued since.

“You, uh, you okay, boss?”

“Mm-hm.” Modulator or no modulator, Antoine calls flaming bullshit. “What’s that.”

“Professional curiosity, boss.” He closes the window. It feels like their eyes are still burned onto the screen. Somehow, they’re worse than the mask and goggles. “So when do we have to go back?”

“I have to go back in two weeks.”

Seeing as the only other person on the plane is the pilot, who is in the cockpit where he belongs, selective obliviousness can get This-Is-Sparta’d right on out the airlock.

“Boss, if you need backup, it’s probably better not to spring it on a rookie.”

“We’ll see.”

In Knight-ese, that means Thank You. Antoine lets him have it and goes back to Google to see about a new game. Maybe a hidden object…it’s a long flight, that might be entertaining.

He’s just looking for the damn typewriter when there’s a sudden weight on his right arm. His first thought is to panic (did that bastard hide an injury again, Mark is gonna kill them both, shit-shit-shit), but a quick check of the Knight’s pulse says nope, he’s just asleep.

Why does this have to happen to him. Why.

Whatever. He moves him a little bit, because dear God he’s heavy, and pats the top of his helmet.

“Night, boss.”

The boss, unsurprisingly, doesn’t stir. Antoine resigns himself to being trapped here for a while and goes back to his game. He **will** find that goddamn typewriter if it costs him every drop of battery life he has.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bromance intensifies*
> 
> Seriously, though, you bet your grandma’s fine china that if some weird hostage Red-Hood-in-exchange-for-kids or whatever thing cropped up, whatever remains of the Militia would be back in Gotham because dammit, that is our boss and he may have traumatized us all but he’s still ours, give him back.


	89. Militia Cheat Sheet

Not a story, just a quick rundown of the Main Militia Squad. Because Jason's all last-names-only-Mister-Professional 'we're here to kill Batman not fuck spiders', and Antoine's the Mom.

 

_Shit. I am the Mom. I didn't sign up for this._

**Your children are burning down the neighborhood, dear.**

_-.-_

 

Antoine Drouot

Been here the longest. On paper, his job is to make sure things go smoothly when Jason's not around. In practice, he's like, 85% of the reason Jason hasn't died of recklessness.

_Yeah, the boss can't drive._

**I can drive.**

_He thinks everything needs to go ninety-plus miles an hour and jump gaps._

**It's efficient.**

_At least one rookie has fainted because you were behind the wheel._

**Weakling.**

Mark Jones

The medic. Always has gum in his mouth. Nobody's sure if he's just that good or if he's just too scary to die on-go ahead, get hurt on his watch. Try it.

  **I was abandoned with him once. It was awful.**

_He did the glare. I don't argue with the glare._

**You outrank him!**

_He's scary!_

**...fair.**

 

Trent Ages

The Big Guy. You know the 'weapons experts', they're like twenty feet tall and can probably pimp-slap Batman through a wall? Yeah. One of those.

_I've seen him rip off car doors before. So glad he's one of ours._

**You wouldn't believe I found him studying butterflies.**

_I would. I was there. I thought he was chasing you down to rip your head off._

**So that's why the car was running already.**

 

Frank Clyde

Pilot, drone commander, Team Dad. Lost his son and the lower part of his right leg in a car accident.

_'Team Dad' meaning 'pulls the Arrested Development gag about removed limbs'. Scared the crap outta me._

**That was great.**

_You weren't the one convinced you severed your new comrade's freaking leg._

**Nope!**

 

James 'Jimmy' Rogers

His dad's name is James, and he's stuck with the differential now. Anyways, he's the tech guy-or, the poor schmuck who has to try (and fail) to combat Barbara and Lucius' hacker attacks. He did his best.

**To be fair, he'd probably outlast the rest of us if our survival depended upon our digital warfare skills.**

_Burned down the mess hall trying for scrambled eggs._

 

 

Riley Dylan

Stealth expert, though how much of that is skill and how much of that is a side effect of getting his tongue burned out is up for debate. Hellofa sniper, though.

_He can hit you with anything. I've seen him nail someone with a slingshot and a plastic spoon._

**When was that?**

_You were away, boss._

**Damn.**

_Could be footage somewhere._

**Find it.**

 

 

Obviously, this is not the entire army, but these are the ones who appear/will appear with the most regularity.

**Idiots.**

_Could be worse. You didn't hear us panicking and shooting at A/C units because Batman was sighted three roofs over._


	90. Happy Birthday, Roman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of the mooks in the DLC mention that it’s Black Mask’s birthday. Really, they do.

“-his hood and give it to Black Mask for his birthday!”

Oh! He didn’t know it was Roman’s birthday. Well, gee, now he feels kinda bad, bustin’ in here, killing his crew and blowing his shipment to Kingdom Come. He should’ve at least grabbed a card at the dollar store on his way over.

It’s still his birthday, Jason reasons. It’s not midnight yet. He’s got…uh…an hour and a half before his greetings would become belated.

Two minutes. This can wait for two minutes.

He swings down a level, kicking the guard there square in the head and tackling him to the floor.

“Shit-”

“Shh.” He wrangles the guy into a very awkward hug and rifles through his pockets until he finds a phone. Okay…open…camera mode…oh, come on, what kind of crappy filter…there! Perfect. “Say cheese, Bob!”

“Fuck you-”

**Click!**

There. That turned out great. Well. Y’know. No selfie in the history of ever is a ‘great’ selfie, but they’re both in it and nobody’s got red eye.

…

Well. Or anything like red eye. THE POINT STILL STANDS. Everybody’s eyes are…

Bob looks great and Jason’s helmet isn’t throwing a glare in or anything. THERE.

Bob’s brains hit the floor a second before the rest of him and Jason starts scrolling through contacts. What would he be under, anyway? Boss? Blackie? Paycheck?

BM.

Bummer. Oh, the perils of accidental villain names…still better than Man-Bat. Who named that poor bastard, Ryder? No, Ryder, for all his faults, has drama in his soul. Somebody else named Man-Bat, he just knows it…oh, well.

He attaches the selfie, goes through the sound choices, and finds the Happy Birthday song. There.

**Send.**

He keeps the phone. It could be useful later. He’s just muting it when it rings and he…

He can’t help himself, he answers.

“Happy birthday, buddy! We on for drinks later?”

“I’LL BE DRINKING OUT OF YOUR SKULL YOU SORRY SON OF A-”

Never mind, he can get another phone.

He flings it, Sionis’s voice still blaring from the speaker, into a small throng of men below. They look up as it hurtles towards them, faces confused and slightly horrified, and it hits one of them in the forehead. He goes down without a sound.

“-LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD BITCH I SWEAR-”

They can deal with this. He sees a vent that looks very empty and sad.

THE END

 

 


	91. Run Red River

Alex Clemens considers herself to be…well, maybe not, like, hot shit, but a kinda hardened cop. It’s Gotham, after all-three months on the job here is worth more experience than six months in LA. And she’s had two years already.

So she doesn’t think twice about entering the warehouse before the backup arrives. She’s stuck with a fuckin’ first-month rookie and besides, sources are saying that there shouldn’t be a lot of people here, and she can bluff like nobody’s business.

It’s dark inside, and cold, and deathly silent. Good.

“GCPD!” she shouts, just to be sure. Nobody answers.

And then she rounds a corner and her boot…hits something.

She shines her light down and promptly steps back. A head. She’s hit a head, blood under it drying just enough to make it not willing to roll easily. It’s tipped upwards maybe an inch-she can see the outline of the hair in the sticky puddle.

What the hell-

The body belonging to the head-well, maybe, there’s a few bodies and some of them look…short…is a few feet away, crumpled next to the wall. She’s just reaching for her radio when she’s disarmed and yanked back around the corner and up against a man, with one hand on her chin and the other braced against the side of her head.

“Who are you.” The voice is mechanical, but that doesn’t hide the current of fury under it. The hands tense and it’s with an effort that she keeps her arms down and loose. “You’ve got three seconds.”

“Officer Alex Clemens, GCPD, here on a tip about human trafficking.” She swallows. “I’ve got people outside, mister, so if you think-”

“No, you don’t. They’ll be here in five minutes if you’re lucky, but you’re here on your own.” Shit. “Badge number.”

She gives it, because at this point she’s got no other defense and she can **hear** the leather creaking against her skull. A second later, she’s slammed into the ground with a boot against her chest and **now** she can see her attacker.

They’ve heard stories, at the precinct. Seen photos of crime scenes, sometimes. But Alex has never seen the Red Hood in person.

She wishes she hadn’t-he looks like something out a bad slasher film, faceless and blood spattered. He’s a lot bigger than she’d realized. Up close, that bat on his chest isn’t really a bat at all, it’s a…it kinda looks like a bird. But that could be the blood spots, sticky and dripping, that currently surround it. Whatever it is, she can definitely see him doing the implacable man stroll after some panicked person or other. Dammit, she just **knows** she’s going to have nightmares after this.

“Nothing’s coming up on you,” he says, and the fury’s left his voice. A little. “So here’s the deal. I got twenty kids under fifteen in that room. Two of ‘em are havin’ reactions to the sedatives. You’re gonna go in there and help ‘em, and if you turn out to be a mole, or paid off, I **will** skin you and leave you as a warning.” There’s a harsh **snick** and a knife shines in the gloom. **“Capisce?”**

“I’m here to help,” she wheezes, and the boot on her chest eases up. A bit. Not enough to get up, but enough not to choke and die. “I swear. We got a tip.”

The red helmet tilts sideways, considering.

“Let’s see.”

And he lets her up.

He wasn’t lying about the kids-they’re huddled against the far wall, staring at the door with wide eyes. One of them-a girl-is gripping a bloody machete that Alex will bet did some head-chopping this evening.

The Red Hood crouches down and says something in Spanish, voice low, before holding out his hand. The girl swallows and gives him the machete.

Great. Something else he can use to kill her.

He steps back, though, giving her a clear path. Outside, there’s sirens. Alex wants to keep him in her line of sight, but there really are two kids on the ground, wheezing and trembling. When she goes to them, the girl who had the machete shouts and tries to rush her. The Red Hood says something else, voice still low and soothing, and the girl shouts something in turn. He turns back to Alex.

“I’m gonna have to hold a gun on you,” he says, deceptively conversational. “Nothing personal.”

Oh, ha, nothing personal. That’s. That’s great.

She weighs her chances of shooting him before he shoots her, figures they suck, and adds on twenty points of ‘slasher villain invincibility’ and ten points of ‘you fucking SHOT me you’re going down’.

She knows how Batman does business. As many, **many** a poor schmuck in Blackgate will attest, hurting him just makes him angrier. There’s a joke that he regenerates through punching people in the face. This guy? It’s not like she believes that crap about him being some sort of resurrected boogey man, but, uh…well…it **is** Gotham. It’s not **that** unlikely.

For better or for worse, Machete Girl-the leader?-calms down when the gun is in his hand, retreats to hide behind him with her arms around one of his knees. The sirens are getting closer, and she wonders how long he’ll stick around.

Or, more accurately, how long he’ll stay where she can see him.

The kids on the ground need medical attention, but they’re not gonna die in the next two minutes. One of em’s got hives, though.

“Clemens!” Bullock. Thank fuck. “How many times are you gonna charge in like a dumbass…friggin’ Jim all over again…where are you?”

“Here! The Red…huh?”

He’s gone, when she turns around. Machete Girl’s still there, watching her with those big, dark eyes, but of her, uh, friend? There’s no sign at all, save for the bloody machete on the ground where he was standing.

Brr.

Bullock barrels into the room, gun drawn.

“What the hell happened?”

Machete Girl looks up at him.

 _“_ _Señor_ _Rojo,”*_ she says, and Bullock grimaces.

“Oh.”

Somebody’s flashlight sweeps across the doorway, illuminating a thin sheen of blood on the cement. For a second, Alex thinks she sees a shadow move, but when she swings her own beam over there, there’s only a corpse.

THE END

*Spanish for ‘Mr. Red’.

****


	92. Homeostasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, time to get freaky. My favorite.
> 
> So in Asylum, you find…a cocoon. And then later, somebody (mook, I think) mentions that Red Hood took out Killer Moth. So. Somebody’s been a naughty boy. What in the world brought that about, hmm? Let’s see. Timeline-wise (haha like I have a timeline), this is shortly after ‘Masks’, so Jason’s still dealing with lingering injuries from that, but before ‘Roots and Leaves’, so no Sheila-or-grave-related trauma.
> 
> (Yes, the Militia Returns to Gotham-in my files as 'Reunited (and Batman's Pissed)' exists, but there's a few key pieces that are NOT coming together, so while I wrangle the drama queens, you get this. I'll do double-duty or something if I need to when it's done.)

Jason looks at the…if he didn’t know any better, he’d call it a cocoon. Which is ridiculous, of course-it’s huge, as big as he is, and Gotham or not, he’s pretty sure somebody would have seen a big-ass butterfly.

But it’s a cocoon, for lack of a better word, and since there’s no one else up here (how did it get up here? Gotham Cathedral’s not easy to climb without the right equipment.), he’s got the dubious honor of finding out what it is.

This is probably gonna be messy and gross, huh. Like somethin’ outta _The X-Files._ If it’s that stretchy bile guy, he’s noping the fuck out and leaving it for Batman. He has limits and he’s not paid for this. Bruce, at least, can bask in the glow of ‘FOR JUSTICE’. Jason? No amount of JUSTICE is gonna make him wrangle with the bile guy.

Grimacing (and immediately regretting it-there’s a goddamn **pimple** in the **worst** location), he draws a knife and stabs it into the top of the cocoon. It **feels** like a cocoon, which is really weird, and it’s with no small amount of trepidation that he pulls the knife down, cutting through fibers, and-

**SHIT-**

It moves, thrashes and smacks itself against the wall, and he scrambles back, stitches pulling. Typical Gotham, what is this, all the chemicals in the air have formed some sorta Mothra, he just knows it, come on, man, he doesn’t get paid for this…

“MMMPH!”

Mothra sounds awful…stuck. He inches forward again, prepared to swing to a nearby rooftop and move to Canada if need be, and pokes the cocoon. It stops thrashing but not making noise and he decides to say something.

“Stop moving.”

It stops. Okay. Maybe it’s not Mothra, after all.

He resumes cutting, a little more carefully this time, and it’s **not** Mothra. It’s not even a monster-it’s a man, a little sticky and a lot panicked, but it’s literally a businessman, glasses wedged into his forehead and suit ruined.

“Thank God, you gotta get me down-” He seems to realize how far down **down** is and blanches, eyes bulging out of his head. “Shit-”

“You’re gonna be fine.”

A beat.

“You’re not Batman.”

Really. Jason just freed him from a cocoon and that’s what he has to say? What a dick.

“No shit.”

“Please don’t hurt me-”

“Are you a rapist?” A frantic shake of the head. “Pedophile? Trafficker? No?” More head-shaking. Now he looks green and Jason moves to a more strategic location, out of the way of any vomit. “Then I’m gonna get ya down.”

His helmet confirms that the businessman-Sitwell, Marcus, thirty-nine, divorced twice, no kids-is telling the truth. He won’t leave him here to panic for long, then.

“How’d you get up here, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Something hit my head.”

Ahh, typical.

Jason cuts him loose and finds himself with an armful of clingy, terrified guy. The hanging-on hurts and he thinks that maybe Mz. May was right and that he should’ve stayed in for another night or two. Not that he’ll admit that.

“Okay, just don’t…right… **there**. Right there. Now hang on, we’re going down and you can say hi to the GCPD, okay?”

Sitwell manages not to hurl until he touches cement, and then he takes three wobbly steps to the nearest trash can. Jason just appreciates him keeping his puke to himself.

“You got any enemies?” He pulls a water bottle from his belt and tosses it over. Sitwell promptly drops it on the ground. “Anyone who would have wanted to, uh, wrap you up and hang you off the side of a church?”

“No. No one. I mean, there’s people I don’t get on with, but not to that extent, I thought…”

Fair enough.

“C’mon. Let’s get you somewhere safe. You wanna walk or take a shortcut?”

Sitwell looks green again.

“I think I’ll just take a cab. Th-thank you.”

“You sure?”

Frantic nodding. Fine.

He may or may not follow to make sure Sitwell does, in fact, make it to the police station unharmed, but once he’s inside he considers his duty done.

* * *

“What did I tell you, hm?”

“That I was fine?”

The wrinkled face accumulates, somehow, more wrinkles as Mz. May scowls at him. A second later, she raps him on the head with a stack of mail.

“Ow!”

“That didn’t hurt.”

But it **did.** It **did** hurt.

“I told you to stay in another day, not go traipsing around Gotham-”

“I didn’t **traipse-** ”

“Are you tryin’ to die?”

If he says yes, she’ll hit him again. If he says no, she’ll accuse him of lying.

Well, crap.

“Not on purpose?” The look she gives him is absolutely **scathing** and he swallows, shrinks into the chair a little more and pretends the movement doesn’t stretch everything wrong. “In my defense, I didn’t…plan to…” He sighs. There’s no winning here. “Nothing bad happened?”

She narrows her eyes and mutters something that sounds like, “Stuck his finger in an outlet, I just know it…”

He doesn’t think so? Anything’s possible, he guesses, but he honestly doesn’t remember doing that.

Who knows.

He leans over the back of the chair and takes mail to the head again, along with an irked, “Are you tryin’ to rip a stitch?”

Heh…

It shouldn’t be funny. But it is, it is funny, that this tiny, wizened thing, maybe five feet tall at **best** , is…honestly, she’s scary. Jason’s about sixty-six percent sure that she could kill a man with her knitting needles.

“Sorry, Mz. May.”

“You should be. Who else can fix my TV?”

Ahh, and there it is, the real reason he’s still alive.

“I’d come possess your TV to make sure it was working all right,” he says, wondering if he can still pull off those big, sad eyes that used to get convince people to give him money when he was a kid. He doubts it. They magically lost their efficacy when Bruce took him in. Fucker. That was a reliable source of income and an insurance of well-being, you **jerk.**

She harrumphs at him and hobbles towards the door.

“If I come back, and you’re doin’ anything besides ‘sleep’, there will be Hell to pay. You hear me, boy? Hell. To. Pay.”

Out of nowhere, he sees a flaming toupee behind his eyelids. He digs his nails into his thigh to keep from laughing and nods.

“I hear you.”

She gives him the stink-eye, but then she’s gone, door clicking shut behind her. Heh. Flaming toupee. He’s hilarious.

Less hilarious is the fact that he really is sore and worn out from this evening. But to be fair, his intention had literally been to hop across a few rooftops, let a couple of people get a look at him, establish that no, he did not get taken out by a robotic dinosaur, so don’t go gettin’ any ideas. And then, well…it was a cocoon. It was right there! What was he supposed to do, chalk it up to, ‘huh, must be Wednesday’ and move on? Nay, he says, he must investigate!

And oh, boy, was that fun. His side is not happy, his shoulders are lodging complaints with JR*, and his left ankle is more than a little wobbly.

He stumbles towards his bed and drops facedown on it, muscles trembling, and closes his eyes. Ow. Okay. He really will sleep, because he values his life and limbs, and worry about the weird shit this afternoon.

Maybe he’ll even get lucky and this’ll turn out to be a one-off.

 

 

*Not a typo: stands for ‘Jason Resources’, because he thinks he’s clever. -.-


	93. Homeostasis, Pt. 2

It is not a one-off.

Well. It probably isn't a one-off, let's not be hasty. But after four hours of blissful darkness gives way to giggling and soft leather fingers pawing at his skin, Jason's up and settled on the couch with a cup of tea and his tablet, which has a rather alarming list of results for 'Gotham cocoon' on the screen.

So far, there's no other cocoons. So far. Though to be fair, your average Twitter user isn't in the position to see ones hanging off a tall building. Google does ask him, however, if he meant 'Gotham moth', and that's what's spawned all these results. There's one Reddit thread that's a brawl between people convinced they saw Firefly and people saying **oh bullshit, fires are down**. It got closed when both sides started getting personal.

Typical.

Okay. Reddit argument aside, one of the tabloids is wondering if Gotham's got her own Mothman-apparently there was a small traffic jam three weeks ago, caused by a-and he's quoting here-'large, winged man on the bridge'. He doesn't remember this incident, but he was still out of it at the time, drifting in and out of fever nightmares and barely able to get out of bed.

Whatever the case, there's been glimpses of the guy since then. A few people said they thought it was Batman until they got a look at the red eyes. Great. Red-eyed, flying freaks are always bad. Come on, man, he's barely back on his feet, couldn't he have found, like, an escaped murderer or something? Ease back into things? Hell, even a low-level gang would be fine. Dress-ups and monsters? Why. Why this.

Well, at least he's not going to be bored.

He follows the more active 'Moth Watch' Twitter account and keeps trawling. Not much. Shaky footage that, honestly, looks like a couple'a teenagers dicking around for internet fame, one blog that looks like it was written drunk…

Ugh. He wants a Jim Gordon of his very own. He **needs** one. Can he, like, put up an ad on Craigslist? 'Wanted: one cop informant for the Red Hood. Must not mind late-night visits and bloodstains.'

Nah, he'll end up with some gung-ho dumbass that shoots at noisy boilers, he just knows it. Or worse-one that shoots at shadows and ends up hitting him by accident.

Once he's reached the third page of Google, the results run out and he shuts his tablet off, struggles up-foot's asleep, foot's asleep, shit-and staggers to the bathroom to check his stitches.

They look good. They'll be ready to come out soon, he thinks, fingering one close to his hip. Good. They're annoying and more than a little itchy. **And** Bruce was the one who put them there, he's pretty sure-they're perfectionistically neat, the way Bruce's stitches always are. He's not sure what to feel about that. Annoyed, a little, because what the hell, Bruce, the only way you could have known he needed them was via stalking. Slightly touched, because…stalking. Stalking is how Bruce shows he cares.

Mostly annoyed. Fuck off, old man, if he wants to bleed out on his bathroom floor, he should be **allowed.** He's an adult, a real adulty-adult, his fake ID says so! Okay, so it's…a year off…but…still. One measly year, and he's still legally an adult. Just. Sort of. Dead-on-paper.

At least he wasn't carted back to the manor…though there might be a reason for that. Maybe Bruce's motivator was guilt. He feels guilty about everything.

Jason shakes his head and pulls his shirt back on, shuffles back to the couch. Morning rush hour is in full swing and it's **ugly** out there. He wants a front-row seat.

* * *

Jason falls asleep and stays that way for another two hours, stirring again at a **crack!** of thunder.

"Mm…"

Well. That might be part of the reason his ankle's been stiff since yesterday afternoon.

He checks the window-locked, as usual-and wonders how much effort he wants to put into breakfast. None, as it turns out-there's a box of donuts on his counter with a sticky note that says, **You're too skinny.**

Sometimes he forgets Mz. May was a cat burglar…

Whatever-really? Really?

There's a donut in the box, this is true. But it's not half a dozen like it should be-it's mostly apples. This hurts, man. He hasn't felt this level of betrayal since Bruce got a new Robin. Maybe not even then.

He eats the donut first, out of spite. He's been injured in defense of this ungrateful city, he's entitled.


	94. Meanwhile, In Gotham

AN: I...look. Okay. I get that every so often Bruce has to put his hand on the Case and angst a bit, for Drama ™. But. But. EVERY TIME I see that now, I'm reminded that the asshole he's angsting about is running around Gotham, picking fights with criminals and blowing things up. So. Drama's gone now. Time to stop, Bruce. Collect your child before he hurts himself.

**No, no, he can still angst about what I could have been if he'd sucked less.**

...as you flip off a building, firing bullets at people on the roof.

**Yes.**

You just want him not to chase after you, don't you.

**He ruins my Aesthetic.**

Happy Father's Day, Bruce! :P

* * *

Bruce has many regrets. Taking in the scrappy orphan that was stealing the tires off the Batmobile is not one of them.

Usually.

Today, however, he's starting to wonder about that.

Jason's Robin suit often gazes accusingly at him from its case. He knows Alfred despises it. Dick, too, as he's made quite clear. Even Barbara gave him a flat look and a raised eyebrow. But what do they expect him to do, forget everything, sweep it aside? He can't. He won't. He needs the reminder to do better, to be better, to not fail anyone else the way he'd...

Well.

The picture on his desk-some semblance of a Happy Family Portrait (only achieved with bribery because Dick and Jason were fighting over...who knows, even)-is, somehow, worse. It captures absolutely nothing of that bright, mouthy kid who probably could have made him laugh at a funeral. It's less accusing than the case, but Bruce isn't always sure that's better.

The computer dings and draws his attention to...

Really. Really, Jason. Why are you Like This. He...he tried to raise you better. **Alfred** tried. It isn't as though...

He's happy. That Jason is alive and...mostly well. But. But then he does this sort of thing, and Bruce feels his hair go grayer.

There's new cell phone footage gracing the internet. Namely, footage of the Red Hood's latest...adventure. There is a burning building. There are, if Bruce is not mistaken, bits of missile on the ground. And Jason...well. Jason's making his exit through a skylight, landing on a rooftop, flipping off the burning remains, and making a sweeping bow to the phone before, as he would have put it once, exiting stage left.

So help him, if he has to suffer one 'bat out of Hell' pun, just one...

The fact that he knows he will, at some time or another, fills him with mild horror. And, after a moment's thought, blame for Dick.

Tim never does this to him. Tim is the favorite child now.*

At least he looked uninjured. Bruce rewinds to make sure. Yes, he's favoring his ankle a little bit, but no more than he usually does. It's the little things...

The phone rings. The phone never rings. Well, not his private one, not at work.

He answers it with no small amount of trepidation.

"Alfred?"

"A parcel has been delivered for you, Master Bruce."

Oh no.

**No puns, no puns, no puns...**

"There is what appears to be a bat flying away from...I believe those are flames and...pitchfork-wielding devils...drawn on the exterior."

**DAMN IT.**

"It's from Jason."

"Hm." There's the sound of paper being removed. "It is a flash drive, Master Bruce."

"Thanks, Alfred. I'll look at it when I get home."

"Shall I put the drawing on the fridge?"

There is no appropriate answer to that.

THE END

*Tim is also the favorite of 98% of the Gallery, because he shuts the fuck up and lets them monologue in peace. The other two...it was either puns, or very serious threats about shoving *nearby object* into *insert orifice here*.

 

 


	95. Catalyst (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So y'know when you get them to open the shutter? They sound so excited that their boss is back. It almost makes me feel bad for having to crush their hopes, dreams and bones. Almost.
> 
> Happy birthday, Antoine! I'm sorry for making your life a cosmic joke.

Antoine tries not to feel too smug that a couple'a the guys have to pay up when the Knight comes back, short-tempered and swaying a little on his feet. He looks like hell and sounds like he's come from there, but he didn't abandon them.

They really should know better than that, jeeze.

They set up camp with the Commissioner, a grey man who Antoine thinks he'd like if it weren't for the awkwardness of 'I gotta tie you to this chair and stand here with a gun on you...sorry'.

And yeah, he feels a little bad about that, but it's a job. He is literally paid for this exact thing. War is war, and...well...

Anyways. Little guilty, yeah, but not enough to go, 'actually, just...just go'. Fuck no.

Ugh. Where the hell is Batman? Or the boss? SOMEBODY WITH EARS.

"How long are we gonna be here?"

"Don't look at me."

"Anybody got a deck of cards?"

Gordon rolls his eyes and Antoine feels a surge of sympathy.

"You boys are gonna be real sorry when he gets here."

Sympathy's gone.

"Quiet."

Gordon levels cold, angry eyes on Antoine.

"If you animals have laid a finger on my daughter-"

Rude. One, they are under express orders (with an added Threat of Painful Demise) not to touch her. Two, they're an army, not a squadron of street thugs. They have **manners**.

"She's fine." Antoine kinda likes her, really. She's got sass. She invited the Scarecrow to engage in intimate relations with a garbage disposal. It was beautiful. He wanted to high-five her, but...handcuffs.

Yeah.

His coms crackle and he holds up a hand to silence the others.

"He's on his way."

"Sir?"

"I'm right behind him. Get ready."

"Yes, sir." He drops the hand. "Bat's on his way."

Gordon snorts. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

There's an unlucky handful that gets stuck with Gordon, but most of them scatter to wait. Who knows, maybe that unlucky handful will be successful. He doubts it, but it could happen. There's giant, tank-eating plants out there, a group of trained guys taking down the Batman isn't the weirdest thing. Right?

...

Yeah, it's...unlikely. Sucks to be them.

Even though he's nice and (sort of) safe in another area of the room, he still cringes when the black shadow erupts from the grates in a flurry of vengeful punches. Ouch. Ouch. Holy shit, that looks painful-oh god, legs don't bend that way.

Nngh.

To the surprise of none, the handful of suckers end up lying on the ground, out cold-SHIT when did the boss even get here? Seriously, he just...appeared!

"Turn. Around."

Uh-oh. This is gonna be bad. All night the boss has been getting...desperate, is maybe the best word, to kill the Bat. Like, 'if I have to die to take you out, I'll do it' desperate.

"Who are you."

Good question. Like any of them care, at this point, but still.

The Knight doesn't lower his gun, but he does raise his hand to his head. What. WHAT.

One of the younger guys taps frantically at his shoulder and Antoine snatches his fingers to make him stop it. Idiot.

"You really have no idea, do you, Bruce?"

Bruce? Who the fuck is-wait. Wait, wait, wait. Is Batman Bruce Wa-THE HELMET'S UP. HELMET'S UP.

Antoine blinks and scrunches his nose. He was expecting...you know, he doesn't know. Darth Vader, maybe. Voldemort. Secretly a woman, somehow, like Samus. Not this.

The Knight's **young** , and that's weird enough, but Antoine's more interested in (horrified by) the brand under his eye-'J', 'J' for what? His name? Someone else's?

The Bat knows him, and from the angle Antoine's got he can see him nearly go weak at the knees.

 _"Jason?"_ Huh. It's so weird, knowing the boss's name-come on, Batman, get your caped ass out the way! "You're dead..."

"S'matter?" Yeah, Antoine knows he's got a modulator, but...but...maybe Crane drugged them all and this is some impossible hallucination. "Lost for words? I expected more...I'm hurt."

They know each other, how?

"Joker sent me the film." WAIT WHAT. "I saw him kill you."

Joker? Joker's involved?

Antoine knows very little about the clown. He's dead, so it doesn't matter, but he'd done a bit of Googling once when he was bored. Forgotten to turn on Safesearch, and the images...death grimaces, posed corpses, children made of each other's body parts...

Things are starting to fall into place. Batman has Robins, plural. The boss hates this fact. The boss and Batman know each other. The boss has **feelings** about abandoning the people who work for him, and one of the Power Points mentioned-

Oh **fuck** -

"-trusted you! And you just left me to die!"

He's not going to be sick. Not right now. They have a job to do, and when the job is done, he can be as sick as he wants and blame the rations. (Or, maybe, that place on Thirty-Ninth the boss told them to avoid that they ate at anyway.)

"That's **not** what happened!"

Antoine's only, slightly hysterical, thought is that this is like an ugly divorce. It's only training (and the fact that he's thirsty) that keeps him from laughing. It's not funny. It's just...he's a nervous laugher, okay, don't judge.

"-want you **dead**."

The Bat's quick, Antoine will give him that-the Knight's jerking back a second before he vanishes in a cloud of smoke. Crap. Crap, he could be anywhere, **fuck...**

"You can't hide from me! I **will** hunt you down!"

The guy that was tapping on his shoulder earlier does it again and Antoine clings to the thought of, **it's weird for everyone, breaking my comrade's fingers is a no-no.**

"What?" he hisses, and the guy does a little flail.

"Scarecrow says..."

"We work for the Knight, not for Scarecrow. He can fuck himself."

"But..."

"Just keep your eyes peeled for Batman," he grumbles, wishing Gotham's buildings didn't have shitty lighting and gargoyles everywhere. It's like the city caters to vigilantes. Isn't that illegal? He's pretty sure that's illegal. S'why they call 'em vigilantes and not law enforcement.

Doesn't matter. Bat's done this time-Scarecrow's stopped pestering them (thank Jesus for that) and his car's burning rubble. He's outgunned and outclassed and Antoine, at least, has every intention of paying back the myriad of broken bones and ruined drones the bastard's dished out tonight.

He glances at a grate near his feet and takes a few steps away from it. Just in case.

Something moves and a second later, a bullet hits the tiles.

"You can't hide, not from me!"

He's not gonna shoot **them** , right? Usually Antoine has a little more faith, but right now...not so much. He doesn't sound so good, he was out in that crap of Crane's...

He nearly trips over somebody-shit, shit, so soon, what the hell?-and calls for backup before dropping to his knees to try and wake him.

"C'mon, buddy, wake up-"

There's another shot and he jumps before registering that it wasn't actually that close to him. It's not like he wants to carry a flag with 'NOT BATMAN' written on it, but...

"Wake up, man, c'mon-"

There's a scream from the other side of the room and y'know what, there's nothing he can do here.

"You think you can take my men? Try it!"

Uh, thanks for the vote of confidence, boss, but, well...

Medic down. MEDIC. DOWN. They're fucked, they're so fucked, Antoine regrets all of his life choices. All of them, even the ones that seemed good at the time.

Okay, maybe not Charlotte Duchamp. He doesn't regret that one. BUT HE REGRETS ALL THE OTHER ONES.

"-a man out there, he can't hurt you!"

Arms don't bend that way. Antoine would respectfully like to disagree.

Something moves in the floor. He's just opening his mouth to alert...somebody...when the grate flies open and he's slammed into the floor. He has time to think **motherfucker** before he takes an elbow to the face and everything goes dark.

THE END


	96. Trending (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In-game, #CityofFear really is trending. The Militia are busy uploading pictures of it.
> 
> I don't know what I was thinking. Probably nothing. Too late now. For added hilarity: remember that Bruce and Barbara have hacked into the Militia frequency. They know.

 

* * *

Antoine trawls through his Twitter feed. Puppies, P-Francis and the Prez, Very British Problems-oh hey, they're trending!

Well. Kinda. Gotham being overrun and held hostage by Scarecrow is trending. But seeing as he wouldn't have gotten anywhere without them, that means they're trending-goddammit, Stevens, that is a shit selfie. That's embarrassing. You are a disgrace to the clan.

He points this out, which promptly starts a rain of mockery and Stevens desperately trying to defend himself, and scrolls on. Pauses. Considers something.

The Knight is currently brooding-er, 'considering their next move'-by the open doorway of the blimp. The city skyline is casting just the right light to make him look like some sorta...supernatural entity. And Antoine knows he shouldn't. But.

But. Damn, that's a good shot.

"Hey, boss, smile!"

"What?" He turns around in time for Antoine to take a snapshot, catching both him and the empty city below. "What did you do?"

"We're trending."

"What."

"On Twitter! See?"

The boss grumbles something about tweet-tweet-bullshit and Antoine swallows a cackle. He is not good with Twitter. He had one for all of five minutes before complaining that it sent him too many goddamn emails and deleting it.

(It was a long plane ride.)

"That is a terrible selfie."

He's saving that one to tell Stevens later.

"Permission to upload a picture? It'd be good for morale, and since you don't have a Twitter anymore..."

The Knight sighs and resumes brooding.

"Fine."

Antoine regrets this immediately. Most of the retweets are from their own crew, but then some user-'CaliGurl44' gets a hold of it and things go directly to Hell without making any pit stops along the way.

The comments start out pretty normal. Y'know, 'sonofabitch'll get what's coming'. Reasonable. Then there's a couple of 'hot damn, he's got the Dorito bod'. Does he...oh. Yeah, all right. Fair enough. **Then** they start veering into X-rated territory. Antoine clicks the hell out of there when somebody starts going on about 'choke me and shove that gun up-'

"I fucked up, boss."

"What?"

"I swear this wasn't supposed to happen."

"What? What did you do?"

His coms crackle and Jimmy's voice comes over the line.

"Jesus Christ, Antoine!"

"I didn't mean for that to happen!"

"You would have to get your goddamn French Artist on!"

"I took a picture, it was an accident!"

The Knight swipes the phone from his hand. This is it, he's screwed, he's never going to be able to Tweet again because his hands are going to be pointing backwards, he just knows it.

Jimmy, oblivious to Antoine's impending doom, prattles on.

"I swear to God, somebody's started a porn thread. A **porn thread** , Antoine. About our poor, social-media-fuck-up of a boss. This is your fault, you have to wade in there and protect his digital virtue!" There's a pause and a low groan of horror. "Or what's left of it."

He regrets his life choices.

The Knight is absolutely silent, thumb occasionally flicking up.

"What the hell," he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. Antoine grimaces.

"I didn't know that was gonna happen, boss."

"Did they miss the bit about invading Gotham city and killing Batman? Did they?"

"I don't think they care, boss."

"Jesus, Antoine, you know what's next?" Jimmy's squawking. "The artists are gonna come out and **draw** the porn. Now get in there and tell them he blew up a dog pound or something before this gets out of control."

"I can hear you," the Knight says, but there's none of his usual bite. Just...deadness. He's probably traumatized.

"SHIT-uh, sorry, boss." There's an awkward silence. "I, uh, I think I see Batman. Or something. The Grim Reaper."

Antoine's phone is returned. The thread has blown up. The boss's digital virtue is screwed (pun unintended)-no amount of damage control is going to fix this. He deletes the picture anyway-it's all he can do-and says, only half-kidding, "So...should we, uh, find a building to blow up?"

"No more pictures."

That's it? His hands are gonna stay pointing the right way?

"Sorry, sir."

THE END


	97. Homeostasis, Pt. 3

AN: In case it wasn't obvious, I'm toying a little bit with canons and timelines because I CAN. And also for plot purposes. Because I am a **professional** , with a Microsoft Office subscription and everything.

**And a Mickey Mouse mug warmer.**

Shut up, it's practical.

* * *

It's pouring rain when Jason steps out for patrol. He is not going to pick a fight tonight, honest. He's just going to do some detective work, see about the moth-guy. Maybe throw the fear of a painful death into any petty crooks he trips over. Y'know, wave. Or. Something. Loom a little.

He drops by a bodega and picks up a Snapple and Oreos after about an hour, and from there makes his way to Cherry's street corner.

"Hey, Red."

"Hey." He holds up the prizes. "I brought snacks."

"You'd better have brought snacks, you little shit, where've you been?"

"Got bit by a robotic T-Rex."

She looks at him, face deeply unimpressed, and reaches up to whap the top of his helmet.

"Do I look stupid to you, Red?"

"But I-"

"I get it, vigilante business. Whatcha want?"

Some days, you just can't win.

"You can see the church from the hotel around here, right?"

She laughs and opens the Snapple, drinks deeply.

"I know, I'm going to Hell. Yeah."

"All the fun people go to Hell!" he protests. "I actually wanted to ask if you saw anything weird last night."

"Had a guy with 'Mom' tattooed on his dick," she says promptly. "Sweetie, but a little weird."

One, **why**. Two, credit where credit's due, that is a brave man.

"Not exactly what I meant."

"I know." She rolls her ankles and leans back on the bench, head tilted upwards. "Things you'd like? Not a thing, but it's not like I'm looking out the window."

Fair.

"Heard anything weird?"

"It's Gotham." She munches an Oreo, brushes crumbs off her hands. "Few disappearances, but that's nothing new. Scarecrow's out."

Great. His chances of running into Bruce just increased. Thanks, Crane, thanks a lot.

Jason mentally scratches Crane off his suspect list. His spindly ass isn't hauling cocoons that high, even if he is going for some sorta horror movie thing, and besides, the businessman was mentally unharmed. At least there's that.

"Heard anything about this moth guy?"

She snorts.

"Some nut in a costume," she says derisively. "Why? He some kinda serial killer?"

God, he hopes not.

"I don't know," he says, stands up and has to take a second for his side to adjust. "Be safe, huh? Watch out for Scarecrow."

"Fuck him, I can kick his skinny ass from here to next week." She raises the Snapple to him. "Good luck finding the Mothman, Red. Thanks for the snacks."

A car drives by, lights oddly large in the gloom, and illuminates something purple in the distance. Jason tenses, just for a second, but the purple's just a sign, tattered and half-off the storefront. Nope, nothing wrong here.

"You okay, Red? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"M'fine." Just a sign. "See you."

He waits until she's back in the light, at least, before retreating to his bike.

The streets are quiet tonight. Probably 'cause it's pouring rain, but it's. Kinda creepy, if he's being honest. Usually by now he's had someone nearly hit him, at least. Not that he's complaining, s'just...

He's felt off all night. Partly it's the rain, partly it's the creepy cocoon, partly the sign rattled him. And partly...partly, something just isn't adding up. One random cocoon? That's it? People have been seeing this guy for a couple'a months, surely there'd have been another, more accessible one. Surely. You gotta practice somewhere, right?

He feels a little better when he reaches his own neighborhood. Yeah, it's grimy and half the windows are boarded up from gunfire and last week a big ol' sewer rat snatched a McDonald's out of a kid's hand, but he could sleepwalk through these streets and be fine. He knows where every single dumpster is, and there's no goddamn purple signs.

His side hurts. Maybe that's all that's wrong with him-what was that?

Just a flash of movement, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it there in that alley. His first thought is Scarecrow, and that's just fine. Trick or treat, motherfucker.

Jason parks his bike and slips off, dodges a puddle with a dead bird in it, and inches over to the invaded alley. It's...empty.

Well. More accurately, it appears empty. Jason knows better, he knows Crane's little tricks and he is **immune**. Or at least prepared.

 **Be prepaaaaaaaaared!** sounds in his head out of nowhere and y'know, it might be bad to take advice from the murder-uncle from Lion Hamlet, but he's not wrong. And so Jason draws one of his guns, clicks the safety off, and turns on the infrared.

The alley really is empty. Which is impossible, it's a dead end. No little space between buildings, even. And that wall is twelve feet, you have to climb on a dumpster to get over it.

What the hell?

Every instinct is screaming at him not to- **Robin** is begging him to turn around before this goes south like the last time he went into a dark, creepy place-but Jason tells him to shut up and goes in anyway, keeping one eye on the opening.

No scythe whips out from nowhere, no cloud of gas hits him in the face. Nothing happens at all.

**Squish.**

His boot's stuck. The hell-?

It's white and sticky, but not **that** kind of white and sticky. S'the same crap the cocoon was made of-synthetic spider silk or whatever. Hopefully...surely there's not a giant mutant spider scuttling around here. Surely. Please, no.

He looks up-he has seen _Lord of the Rings_ , he knows to look up-and sees rain and an empty clothesline. No spiders. It's something.

He frees his boot, calls dibs on the white stuff for Evidence, and keeps moving. There's nothing else of interest, not even a fingerprint...though to be fair, rain ruins evidence. Rain ruins everything.

Creepy.

The alley smells, even with the filters in his helmet. Trash man hasn't come by for a while, probably. Jason can't entirely blame him-some of Joker's weird fanboys sometimes hide in the cans and pop up like murderous jack-in-the-boxes. 'Specially down here, where Batman and the cops don't tend to linger.

He kicks a nearby bin. The lid comes off to reveal bags and nothing else.

**Plik, plik, plik.**

With one last look at the very wet, empty alley, Jason turns and heads back to the sidewalk. Weird. Very weird-WHAT IS THAT ON HIS BIKE.

More white gook. That's it. That's it. Whoever is running around pulling this crap is going down, this is gonna take forever to get off...

"It's okay, baby, we'll fix this," he soothes. The headlamp, what little he can see of it, stares mournfully at him. "You needed a bath anyway..."

The white whatever is still shiny and kinda...warm. This is gross. This is definitely up there with that time he got chunky-vomited on. Still below the corpse-sewer, though.*

Okay. Grievous insult to his poor bike aside, the perp can't have gotten far. He was away from it for ten minutes, tops-there!

**Gotcha.**

Bastard's on a roof. Jason grapples after them, side protesting at the sudden pull. His boots have barely hit the roof when the whatever it is (those are wings, big ones) points what looks like somethin' out of _Star Wars_ at him.

He goes left but so does the ray-gun-thing. There is no pain. Instead, white stuff

**Well, mark me down as pissed and creeped out.**

shoots out and wraps around his knees, snapping his legs together and sending him crashing onto his back.

**Ow.**

He's expecting attempted murder. Gloating, maybe. And he's just going for his gun to prevent that when the winged thing just...leaves. Jumps off the roof and straight-up glides away into the night.

What. The actual. Hell.

He cuts himself loose, but by now the thing's long gone and he's left aching and confused. He starts forward, intending to give chase, but two steps in and there's a nasty twinge and the sensation of warm wetness. Stitches. Fuck. His awkward fall must've...

New plan. Sneak in, fix this before he gets busted, track this bastard down tomorrow.

Now. Hopefully the humidity hasn't gotten his window stuck again.

 

 

 

 

*Jason is referencing the events of _The Cult_. I don't think he woke up intending to fall into a pile of rotting bodies and having to pimp-slap Batman back to reality.


	99. Homeostasis, Pt. 4

_Jason comes to with the realization that he's being carried. Instinct says_ _ **PANIC**_ _, but then it hits him that the black arms are familiar and that he knows the soft_ whip _of the cape._

_Bruce._

_Wha…? Did somethin' happen? He can't remember, but his head hurts…somethin' must've happened._

_He wants to ask, but his mouth doesn't want to work. Doesn't matter. Bruce is here, he's got him. He's all right._

_"_ _B…?"_

_"_ _Sh."_

_Okay._

_He lets his head fall against Bruce's shoulder and drifts, a little, the gentle swaying lulling him towards good dreams._

_He stirs when they hit stairs. The Cave? Why didn't they come in the right way…maybe something's wrong with the entrance. It doesn't matter._

_He blinks, head twisting to press against Bruce, and sees…tile. Why's there tile? The cave's not tiled._

_"_ _B?"_

_Bruce doesn't answer. From down here, Jason can see the muscles working in his jaw. S'he upset? Maybe he's hurt because…because…_

_Why can't he remember?_

_"_ _Bruce?" He tries to rouse himself, and now he's a little more awake, but his limbs are so, so heavy and he can barely lift his head. "Bruce, where are we?"_

_Bruce stops and the next thing Jason knows, he's being laid down on the cold tiles. Not the cave. Are they escaping something? Maybe someone's coming._

_"_ _B?"_

_"_ _This is for the best, Jason."_

_"_ _Huh?" He blinks harder. It's dark down here, save for the single bulb illuminating the floor he's sprawled on. "What's happening?"_

**_Clink, clink. Clink, clink._ **

_Bruce leans over him and before he really registers what's happening, cold metal cuffs are locked around his wrists. He pulls on them, or tries to, and gets nowhere._

_"_ _B?" What's going on? What's he doing? "Dad?"_

_The cowl looks at him, unreadable._

_"_ _You are not my son."_

_But-_

_"_ _Bruce?"_

_But Bruce is-_

_Bruce is_ _**leaving** _ _, stepping into the dark with a curt, "Don't lose him again, Joker."_

_No. No, no, please, he'll be good, he'll be good, just-_

_"_ _Dad!" He pulls at the cuffs again, eyes locked on the retreating cape. "Dad, please, please don't go-!"_

_But he doesn't turn, doesn't even stop, and bleached white cheeks slashed with red appear in his line of vision._

_"_ _Oh, don't cry, Jay-bird! I've been_ _**ever** _ _so worried!" Yellow points appear in the red slash. "See, this is why we had to do this, so I could find you again!" Buttery leather caresses his cheek and Jason tries to pull away, tries to find Bruce, but Bruce is…Bruce is…_

_He's gone._

**_Dad?_ **

_"_ _Shh, shh." His head's pulled into the clown's lap and the buttery leather pets his hair. "It's all better now." Purple swipes a tear from his cheek and there's a slurping sound above him. "But you were a naughty boy, running off like that! Poor Harley was inconsolable…you could have been_ _**seriously** _ _hurt." Please…Bruce, please come back… "You'll have to be…_ _**punished.** _ _"_

_The next thing he knows is pain._

* * *

The crack in the ceiling sometimes looks like a tiger. Today, it looks a lot more sinister.

He's on his back, chest heaving, shirt damp and gross with sweat, and the crack in the ceiling is smiling down at him.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare. He's all right. Bruce didn't…Joker's not…

He balls the sheet corner in his fist, squeezes until his hand hurts, and lets go. This is real. He's all right.

The smile in the ceiling retreats and he closes his eyes for all of thirty seconds before his limbs get that tingly, heavy feeling that says sleep paralysis is coming. Never mind. Sleep is for the weak.

 **Or the brave** , hisses a voice that sounds too high for comfort. There's another slurping sound by the bed and Jason shudders, forces himself to roll over and look at the clock.

Said clock is an obscenely bright blue thing that casts a little bit of light onto the floor. He got it for that exact reason-Arkham was pitch, when Joker was done for the day, and he can't…not again. Never again.

 **4: 15** , the clock tells him. An hour. He's been asleep for one measly hour. No wonder he's so goddamn tired…

He'll nap today, or he'll try to. When it's lighter outside. For now, he quits. He's up. He wants tea and fresh pajamas.

The couch welcomes him with open arms and he scrunches into the corner, hands wrapped around his mug. It's blazing hot, but he doesn't care. It's grounding. What's a mild burn compared to more nightmares, anyway?

He drops his head onto the couch arm and closes his eyes. They're sandy-scratchy and he's tempted to set the mug down and sleep right here. Maybe…f'he's still comfy for another minute…

**"** **WAKE UP, TODDERS!"**

Never mind.

It's still raining. The flickering lights outside make it look surreal, like damp fingers clawing at his window.

God, he's just so tired…

Something soft flutters against his cheek and it's only good reflexes that keep his tea in hand. Two things click-one, his face is damp with tears and he doesn't know when that happened. Two, the soft thing is a moth. He lures it onto his hand instead and frowns.

He's always thought moths were kinda cute. They're like furry butterflies and there's one that looks like a poodle. How can you go wrong?

This is not the poodle moth. This is your average, unexciting Gotham City Moth, the kind that hangs out near porch lights and corpses. Still furry, though. And ugly-cute.

The moth lingers on his fingers for a few more minutes before fluttering onto the lampshade. He yawns and makes himself a little more comfortable, finishes his tea and fumbles for the remote.

He's swallowed wrong-lying down makes him cough, and cough, and **cough** -

-and something comes up.

Something's fluttering behind his teeth, brushing against the roof of his mouth. His tongue reflexively snaps upwards to try and make the tickling go away and there's a **crunch** , followed by a flood of bitter flavor and…liquid.

Fingers shaking, he reaches into his mouth and pulls out a moth, crushed and still reflexively fluttering a little. What the hell. What the hell what the hell what the hell-

His stomach flutters, his throat tightens, and a swarm of them erupt on his next exhale.

* * *

**Fuck.**

Jason stumbles off the couch, empty mug falling to the floor, and staggers into the bathroom. Bright lights. Smells like Lysol because he just cleaned. No. Goddamn. Bugs.

Just to be safe, he checks his mouth. Nothing. Just a dream. Just a weird dream, because his brain hates him.

He gargles with Listerine anyway, ignores the ghost of his eighth-grade teacher rambling about the symbolism of moths in literature (not now, Mrs. Lyons, he loved your class but SHUSH) and figures screw the tea, he needs coffee.

**Nine, ten, never sleep again…**

The sun's coming up now, or what they get for sun. Yellow haze. The circles around his eyes would make a racoon jealous, he thinks, before flicking off the light and going to turn on the coffee maker and pick up his mug. The news is blaring a warning about Scarecrow-the standard 'lock your doors, don't go out at night, be wary about knocking on doors for Jesus'* sort of thing. No moth-related incidents, though, so that's something.

Twitter has news of the guy. He doesn't seem to have an area, just hops around at random. Last night he turned up in the Diamond District, scared the crap out an old lady letting Mr. Snuffykins outside at four in the morning, and high-tailed it outta there.

At least there's that.

* * *

*Dr. Crane was raised by an extremely religious great-grandmother. It wasn't fun for him. He tends to be very, **very** unhappy when people come to his door looking to convert him. (And it's Gotham, door-to-door is dangerous already unless you're the Girl Scouts. Everybody loves Thin Mints.)


	100. Living Dead Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to ‘Roots and Leaves’, because PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMAAAAA and also because digging your way out of a grave can have Complications. If you or a loved one suffer from taphobia, Scary Scarecrows recommends being buried in scuba gear. Dr. Jonathan Crane recommends seeing a good therapist. He can work you in if you’re desperate.

_Jason knows something’s wrong when he wakes up coughing, collarbones aching from doing it lying down, and tastes dirt and decay in his mouth._

_And Mom’s here. That’s probably bad._

_At least, he thinks it might be. But then he can’t place the **why**._

_The coughing is not stopping and he finally sits up, half-gagging and feeling mud frothing at the back of his throat. What’s happening?_

_“Mom?” he says, or tries to say-the mud (somethin’s moving back there s’wiggling and tickling his uvula). But she gets it, turns around with a tired smile and wow, she hasn’t looked this healthy in…in…he can’t remember._

_“Jayjay.” Her fingers are freezing, when they touch his head. Freezing and heavy and limp like a dead fish. Maybe the heat’s out again. “My sweet boy.”_

_Yeah, heat’s out. That’s all. He coughs again, shifting the wiggling thing forward a little bit for a second or two. Mom gets that frown between her eyebrows like she always got when he was sick._

_The cold fingers move gently through his hair, nails scritching against his scalp and sending chills across his skin. He doesn’t feel good. It’s hard to breathe._

_The wiggly thing squirms against the roof of his mouth and he pulls a hand, heavy and numb, up to his lips to try and pull it out. It’s squishy between his fingers and he feels it start to come, long and slow like a mucus strand, before Mom shakes her head and taps his fingers until he lets go. It squirms back down his throat._

_“No, baby, that’s gotta stay there.”_

_“But-”_

_“I’ve missed you.” She sits down and strokes his cheek. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you so much.”_

_He’s missed her too, which is strange, because didn’t he just see her? He could have sworn…they got lunch, just last week…_

_Didn’t they?_

_Now that he had it halfway out, the wiggly thing is really annoying. And it’s not the only thing moving in him-he can feel things skittering between his ribs and behind his eyes. What’s wrong with him?_

_“Mom?”_

_Sheila, with half her head missing, tousles his hair._

_“Hey, kid.”_

_Huh?_

_Her remaining eye, red with a blue center, locks on his throat. Before he can ask why, she’s got her fingers there, gently squeezing, and it feels like…like she’s squeezing a bean bag, but **he’s** the bean bag. Mud forces itself up the back of his throat and onto his tongue, gritty and bitter, and something **tickles** for a minute before it digs free._

_It’s a beetle. He can feel it scurrying around behind his teeth before squeezing through his lips and running on down his chin and over the hollow of his throat before digging back into him, just above his collarbones._

_“Mom-”_

_“Welcome home, Jason.”_

_The beetle burrows into his lungs, pincers cutting through the tissue, and he coughs. Sheila’s fingers tighten, forcing bits of dirt down his throat and up into his mouth and **he can’t breathe-**_

“-son. Master Jason.” Mm… “Wake up, now.”

Huh…?

He’s still coughing, that’s for sure-harsh, agonizing horsey-noises that have him half-arching off his bed. His body aches and he’s freezing, skin prickly-painful despite the fact that he’s…naked…what? No, he had pajamas on when he went to bed, he knows that, where are they **what happened-**

“You need to calm down, young sir, before you hit your head.” The words don’t quite register but the tone does and he stops thrashing, wonders when he started. “That’s better.”

A mental check says that his sheets are still in place, his sweats are down around his ankles somehow, and that he doesn’t feel sticky and gross and sore. So. Odds are good that he disrobed himself, somehow, at some point. All right. That’s. That’s all right.

He still can’t breathe. Why can’t he pull in a full breath, why does it feel like he’s got six feet of earth on his chest-

“Can you open your eyes for me?”

The tone, quiet and unconfrontational yet still tinged with steel, dances around his brain and he does as asked. He’s still in his own bed, and a glance towards the floor reveals his Batgirl shirt, tangled and inside-out. Further glances reveal Alfred.

Wait. Alfred? Great, this is still a dream, and it’s going to suck.

He opens his mouth, intending to start his wake-up mantra (or try for it) and starts coughing again, lungs twisting and tensing. Firm hands ease him upright and prop him up for a few moments until the coughs die off.

“Alfie?”

“Perhaps you should not have, ah, flown the coop quite so soon, sir.”

Any idea to play the stoic takes one look at the situation and hurls itself from the window, middle fingers in the air, screaming ‘fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck this I’m OUT’.

“I don’ feel so good.”

A glass flits across the corner of his eye and a straw is pressed against his lips. Apple juice. It’s cold, too, a step from frozen the way he always liked it, and it feels like the nectar of the gods going down his throat.

“I’m not surprised.” This could be bad. “Back down.”

Another pillow has appeared out of nowhere and he’s now propped up higher than he’d like, but he can breathe. A little. The persistent tickle at the back of his mouth is gone, anyway.

“You’ve given everyone a bit of a fright, sir.” Everyone’s got their talents. “Three days without seeing hide nor hair of you triggered mild family panic.”

Everyone he knows is a stalker. Dick gets a freebie, because Bruce is the biggest creeper of them all and he didn’t have a chance, but Barbara? The Replacement? They have no excuse.

“Didn’ realize I was sick,” he mumbles, pulling a hand out of the blankets and only just remembering that he can’t quite pick up the glass. He has Dummy Cups, got some early on just in case, but this is one of his regular ones, the ones with 1950s-style fruit graphics on them. Alfred, thankfully, gives him another sip without having to be asked.

“Mm.”

It’s not his fault, he tells himself, even as he opens his mouth and rasps, “Sorry, Alfred.”

And he is. Well. He’s sorry for (presumably) worrying Alfred. Everyone else can go die in a fire.

Alfred combs his fingers through sweat-stiff bangs and makes a displeased noise.

“A shower, I think, is our first order of business.”

* * *

The shower wipes him out. He doesn’t know when it happened, but at some point he got clean sheets on his bed and he is **grateful** when he crawls in between them, tongue jammed against the roof of his mouth to try to keep his coughs at bay.

Now, in that awful drowsy state between sleep and awake, his brain’s running again, throwing up images of Mom and Sheila and Harley Quinn with her makeup tear-ruined and screaming, **you took my Mistah J away from me!**

At some point, she turns to Sheila, blood and brain matter **plunking** accusingly onto the rug, and then she falls, arm bouncing cold and dead with a syringe still held loosely in stiff fingers.

He feels lousy. His head hurts. His lungs hurt, too, and he’s selfishly relieved that Alfred’s here. Getting up and actually making food, or even calling for delivery, is too much.

 **It’s the least you deserve** , Sheila hisses in his ear, slender surgeon’s fingers wrapping around his neck. He shakes his head and pulls away, pretends he doesn’t feel the hot, sticky marks she leaves behind.

It’s a few hours later, when he’s had a mug of chicken soup and is honestly close to falling asleep and playing dead for a year, that Alfred picks up his coat.

“I need to be getting back, Master Jason.” Oh. Right. “I presume I am correct in that you do not wish to return with me?”

Hell no.

He nods, regrets it a second later, and only feels a little guilty at the barest exhale a few feet away.

“I will return at noon tomorrow to ensure your continued survival.” And there’s where Bruce gets his dramatic streak. “Until then, is there anyone you may contact should things go…poorly?”

“My neighbor.” He swallows around the sudden lump. “Four-oh-six, Mz. Melinda May. She’ll probably be by soon anyway.”

“I will inform her of the situation, then.”

“S’okay, you don’t-” The look he gets makes his insides shudder. “T’anks.”

He’s screwed now.

Alfred does not realize the dreadful thing he’s about to do, or maybe he doesn’t care. Whichever it is, he finishes putting on his coat, fusses with Jason’s blankets, and cups his face.

“You _will_ call me, or another person of your choosing, if you require assistance,” he says seriously. “Is that quite understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” He straightens up. “I will see you tomorrow, Master Jay. Pleasant dreams.”

And then he’s gone, turning off the main lights and leaving Jason with a large travel mug of ice water and a bottle of cough syrup they both know he’s not going to touch. He should get up, he knows, make sure everything’s locked, but…

He trusts Alfred to lock the door, and he’s **tired.**

He makes a pillow stack as low as possible while still being effective and rolls onto his side, back to the wall. And then he sees it-the more loved than he’d ever admit Robin Bear. Dick had gotten it for him, partly as a gag gift and partly because, well, **Dick** , when he was twelve. He’d scoffed, insisted he was too old for a teddy bear, and ended up clinging to it for dear life the first time he got a syringeful of fear toxin. When Alfred had snuck it onto his bedside table, he has no clue.

He reaches over, rubs his fingertip across the stitched nose. He’d forgotten about it, to be honest, what with…with everything.

If he pulls it into his arms and presses his forehead between the ears, well, he’s sick. Fuck off.

THE END


	101. Homeostasis, Pt. 5

Does Jason feel silly for buying a crap-ton of mothballs that afternoon? Maybe. Does it make him feel better? Yes. Yes, it does.

Now that the sun’s up, he can see that he missed a bit of the white gook on his bike. Which is why he’s outside now, risking sunburn, armed with a bucket of water, a sponge, and a soft toothbrush.

It’s not shiny, the gook. Stubborn as hell, though, clings to **everything**. He’s just trying to get some of it out of the grooves in the handlebars when his radio station cuts out. Goddamn it…every time…is it so much to ask for some decent reception, come on…

He doesn’t want the news. The news reporter for the afternoon is **annoying** -nasally-voiced and he always stops and does this snorting inhale like he’s huffing a booger back up his nose and-

“-mysterious death of Marcus Sitwell-”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Sitwell? That’s his businessman! What the hell?

Fine. He’ll suffer Nasally Booger Huffer.

“-this afternoon at Gotham General. Police are tight-lipped about the cause-”

Never mind, he’ll do some…deeper investigating in a minute. Well, half an hour or so, give the GCPD’s database time to upload things. It’s slow. It’s not their fault, but it is.

He finds a new radio station-mariachi, all right, his childhood neighbor used to play this all the time-and returns to his defiled bike.

* * *

Marcus Sitwell checked into Gotham General less than an hour after Jason rescued him from the cocoon. He stayed there, showing no symptoms other than an understandable distress, until nine o’ clock last night, when he suddenly seized and died within the span of five minutes. The toxicology reports are pending. Jason wants to say they’ve got an Angel of Mercy at the hospital-they come up from time to time-but…what’re the odds of Sitwell being…

Hrm.

Further investigation into the guy brings up nothing. No sketchy business deals, no complaints to the police, no allegations of harassment…nothing. All he has is a LinkedIn account, and that’s…woefully uninteracted with. He goes to work, trades stocks and what-have-you, goes home. No wife, no kids, no friends, as far as Jason can tell.

He’s…this is uncharitable, he knows that, but…damn, this guy was **lame**. He’s not even worthy of being a **hostage.**

So. Either he was better at hiding shit than Bruce, or this was random. He’s betting random. It fits with the moth-guy’s lack of a ‘hunting ground’…but that could just be what he **wants** people to think…or he could want them to think that he wants them to think-

**Stop. Breathe. Chill.**

All right. His favored theory is that this guy is a random weirdo. Probably an opportunist, possibly never to cocoon again-maybe he developed a fixation on Sitwell for some reason. But he’s gonna go with that until he gets proved wrong, for his sanity’s sake.

Great. Random ones suck. Eighty percent of it is dumb luck.

But not **that** many people can make a fake cocoon. Well, not a good one like the one on the church. That’s gotta count for something.

He can’t stick the piece that he’s got into his computer and magically run it through a giant database. He’s not Bruce. All trying that will do is get him a ruined laptop. But looking around at local labs, seeing what their current projects are…he can do that, easy.

* * *

**I regret my life choices.**

The problem with Gotham is that, despite the high crime rate, they are a science hotbed. Hell, half-more than half-of the damn Rogues Gallery went, ‘welp, fuck my PhD, I’m off to commit mass murder!’ Even the rest of them are far from stupid. (Case in point: Cobblepot’s saying of, ‘of course I have Prime, you don’t become a crime lord by paying for shipping’. Words to live by.)

So. Lotta labs. Lotta workers.

God. Dammit.

He’s narrowed it down, after about four hours, to three. Well, three really likely ones-there’s seven that he’s keeping in mind because they’re Sketchy™.

Whyyyyyyyy.

Whatever the case, the Red Hood will be working his way through them starting at sundown. Right now, though, he wants coffee. And to make sure his bike isn’t suffering from its traumatic experience.

It’s not. Granted, someone comes thisclose to sideswiping him, resulting in a downed window and a back-and-forth of ‘watch where you’re fucking going you fucking assclown’ and mutual middle fingers, but the bike is fine.

The bike also fits nicely into one of the teeny-tiny parking spots at the French Maid. He gets a dirty look from some soccer mom in a minivan, but she wouldn’t have fit it anyway, so there.

The Coffee Shop Three are, as ever, in their preferred window seat, hoods up to block out the sun streaming through the blinds. Their laptop screens turn their glasses into shiny, animesque ones and the leaning tower of mugs in the middle of the table is getting alarming.

He buys them espresso shots, gets a flat white and a bagel for himself, and wonders if the heart in the foam is the barista flirting with him or just a Thing.

He will be not leaving his number on a napkin, so it doesn’t matter.

“Hood.” Ahh, the creepy together-speak. “You have been missing.”

“Robotic dinosaur,” he explains, sinking further into the chair. His side is grateful for the rest. His spine hates the slatted chair.

“Do you have it?”

“I broke it.”

Three heads snap to him and look at him in deep disappointment. Ungrateful bastards. Like he’d have shared it anyway.

They gaze at him for thirty whole seconds (blink, guys, humans blink, you gotta blink to blend in) before returning to their laptops.

Jason finishes his bagel, watches the heart spread out and become a blob, and figures that they’re not going to make casual conversation.

“What do you know about this so-called Mothman?”

“You’ve seen the Mothman?” The leader-today it’s Black Panther shirt-sounds **way** too excited about that. “Is he really half-moth?”

“No, he’s an asshole with some kinda web gun” he grouses. “Spits this out.”

He takes one of his samples out of his backpack. It’s not the leader that grabs for it, it’s one of the lackeys-Mister Yuk*. He doesn’t even ask before tugging it out of the plastic baggie.

“Look at it,” he says reverently. “This really came from the Mothman?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” He twists it between his fingers, tugging gently at it and holding it up to his computer’s backlight. Then-and that’s it, Jason’s idea that they’re lizard people is **confirmed** -he licks it.

He’s gonna hurl. Good-bye, bagel. Farewell, potentially flirtatious coffee.

“This is real.” What. That just opened up the door to so many follow-up questions. “I’d like to test it at home, but I’d bet you my X-Box that this is legitimate moth silk.”

Humor the crazy man. Jason’s good at that. It’s his only defense, at this point.

“Uh, sure. Knock yourself out.”

The grin he gets in return could rival the Joker’s and Mister Yuk tucks the sample back into the baggie and vanishes it into his coat. Well. That wasn’t what he was expecting, but he’s not about to complain.

“I’ll be done with it by tomorrow,” Mister Yuk says, patting his coat as though he’s soothing a baby. “Come back then.”

That’s either a ‘you can go’ or a ‘get the fuck out’. Jason doesn’t care which one it is, he’s taking it.

Welp, if it turns out to be poison thread or whatever, he guesses he’ll know pretty soon. And maybe that’s not nice, but…it’s not his fault, okay? He refuses to feel too bad. What kinda weirdo licks the fucking cocoon material, huh?

Only in Gotham, man. Only in Gotham.

 

 

 

*Mister Yuk is the green ‘bleh’ face that appears on toxic stuff to let kids know not to eat it.


	102. Reunited (and Batman's Pissed) {Militia Fic}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a little bit of this floating in my files (my vast, vast files…good GOD it’s scary in there) and a few (many) people asked about it, so. Here. Fits into no timeline whatsoever (canon? What’s that? You shoot big metal balls with it, right?) but oh freaking well.
> 
> This isn’t done, and it won’t have a steady schedule, BUT it’s short, so it won’t take a thousand years, and sometimes the pressure to finish a partially uploaded thing jogs my brain into putting things together.

The film is gritty, cheap home-video-camera, and the lighting is complete shit. But it’s enough to see two men, one with a black head, with a crowbar in hand, and the other hanging by his wrists from a meat hook, because Gotham just…has meat hooks all over the place like it ain’t no thang.

And, helmet or no helmet, random red…bat…bird…thing or no random thing, Antoine only had to look at the hanging man for a few seconds before going, **aw, shit, that’s the boss.**

Because he’ll always be the boss, even when one or both of them is dead, even now, on the other side of the world. Antoine never technically quit, or retired, or was fired or anything. He just…went on a long, probably-permanent vacation.

Crowbar-man has kept his back to the camera or moved too quickly for Antoine to see his face (and he’s **fast** and more precise in his movements than his size would have you believe), but it doesn’t matter. He’s pretty sure he knows who that is. Black Mask, second-rate mob boss when they were, uh, invading Gotham, tried to get a foothold in the chaos afterwards, couldn’t.

And that he’s supposed to be dead. Antoine isn’t even hung up on that. It’s Gotham. He gets that now. That city spawns bat-monsters and carnivorous plants and creatures made out of clay. Resurrection? Must be Tuesday.

He **is** hung up on the fact that his employer is an idiot with the self-preservation skills of Nana’s blind, brain-damaged Chinese Crested. A homicidal maniac threatening a preschool is not grounds to hand yourself over, remove every weapon you have on your person, and submit to being tortured (with the likely ending of death) on a livestream. Fucking Batman lives in Gotham. It’s his literal job to deal with this shit. Let him.

Whatever. Batman’s nowhere to be seen, which means Antoine is packing a suitcase and fighting with the airport’s website. Ridiculous…just had to surrender to a maniac… **no** , website, he is not a bot, quit popping up the stupid Captcha…there. Flight booked.

Black Mask’s still **moving** , darting from side to side, and Antoine finally shuts the volume off. It doesn’t really help, and by the time he’s zipping up his suitcase, the boss has gone horribly slack and silent.

The guy just keeps hitting. He’s just drawn back for another swing when Antoine closes the tab and goes outside to catch a cab.

Well. This is not how he envisioned his weekend going.


	103. R(&B's P), Pt. 2

Antoine doesn’t mind planes. There’s no weird shit on planes. No Batman, no carnivorous plants, no nothing. And you get snacks.

Not that he wants the snacks right now. Or at all.

Black Mask had backed off by the time he brought the feed back up on his tablet (in-flight wi-fi, gotta love it). He was nowhere to be seen, actually, which made Antoine wonder if he’d gone out for McDonald’s or something. Whatever the case, he’s still not there (and the few minutes he spent with his earbuds in were silent).

The boss is still unconscious or otherwise not moving. Antoine refuses to accept that he might be dead, because he’s a stubborn bastard who isn’t going to be killed by something as lame as a guy in a skull mask, and tries to make out the room around him. He’s got time to kill, goodness knows, he may as well try to get some location ideas.

He regrets this already. Batman can deal with this. That’s his job. That’s his only job, so where is he? He was certainly quick to drive through their checkpoints and blow up the missile launcher and run their APCs off the road. So where is he? Is he just sitting at home in his Bat-pajamas, debating on whether or not to deal with this mess?

(For that matter, do his pajamas have ears? The boss ditched the ears. Batman’s appear to have gotten longer.)

**Focus.**

There, uh, there’s not much. They’re clearly in a building, a ratty, run-down building that’s probably one of many on the demolitions list. That…does not narrow it down. Like, at all. Somehow, he doubts ‘cracked cement walls and tile flooring’ is going to get him far.

Look, far be it from him to judge someone’s, uh, villain-skills or whatever, but would it have been so wrong to set up shop on a roof? Or in the preschool? Or somewhere **recognizable**?

And where the frick-frack-paddy-whack **is** Batman? He was happy to ignore their demands. They were even nice about it. ‘Don’t come on this island or we blow up your car’. Nothing about under-fives or any of that bullshit.

A green bubble appears with the name ‘Jimmayyyy’ in it. He puts in his earbuds and accepts the call.

Jimmy’s face fills the screen. He is apparently on a bus-Antoine sees trees flying by and a toddler hanging over the back of his seat. It has a lollipop, he notices absently. A sticky, red lollipop with a hair hanging off it.

That’s really gross.

“Where are you?” Jimmy demands. “Kid, if you stick that in my hair again-”

The toddler giggles.

“Like, five hours out, easy. Where are you?”

“Forty minutes. Been trying to get a signal lock, no dice, but maybe once we’re in Gotham proper I can get it.”

Good. He hadn’t really…thought about…anything. His master plan was ‘find the boss and try not to die’.

Shut up. His only coffee today has been the airplane swill that tastes like finding out Santa isn’t real. It’s not like he’s a rookie kid with a slingshot, anyway. He can improvise. He’s not gonna fall to his knees and start crying if he shoots someone, either. Jeeze.

“Kid on your left.”

“Fu-udge dumplings, kid, I mean it…Mark’s calling. See you at the mall.”

The window goes dark just the lollipop makes contact with the side of his head. Antoine does a quick check for any candies in **his** hair, comes up clean, and looks at the livestream again. No clown. No sign of consciousness, either, but to be fair, he looks like crap and he could just not be up to doing anything.

He sets the tablet aside and leans his head against the window, watches the sea of clouds go by. It’s been a long day.

It didn’t start out that way. It had started out nice and normal-a lazy wake-up, a roll over to trawl through the news before getting out bed. He’d been thinking about maybe going out for breakfast.

He checks Gotham’s news religiously, now. He has to. He **understands**. And he wants to know if anything gets out, so he has time to build a bunker before the crazy reaches him. This morning hadn’t been bad. The crocodile-man had been apprehended, there’d been a bank robbery, some brand of acetone had been recalled for fear toxin contamination. Whatever.

But then the ‘breaking news’ banner had popped up, and he’d clicked it, and here he is. Honestly, he’s glad he could get a flight at all-seems like half the time, Gotham’s on lockdown because somebody’s rampaging or the airport got caught in the crossfire between Mobs A and B.

Sometimes, he thinks the government should just kick Gotham out of America and blow it up. Something’s not right in there. Look, when some religious nut amasses an army of homeless people and manages to lock out the US Marines…come on, man!

For that matter, when a guy in a cape manages to tear through a PMC…yeah.

Nothing new on the livestream. That’s…that’s probably good. He’s gonna go with ‘that’s good’.

Four and a half hours. Ugh.

* * *

Antoine scores a two-hour nap eventually, waking up with a stiff neck and the seatbelt trying to wedge itself under his jeans. He feels mildly violated by this.

Ow…

As it happens, they’ll be landing in half an hour. Finally. The asshole in front of him has reclined his (her?) seat and somewhere behind him, a baby’s started crying.

He looks at the tablet again. Regrets it, a little-the boss…he’s just so **still**. He’s never still, not really-even on stakeouts, he was always fiddling with something. Clicking a pen, flipping a knife…Antoine had been a little grateful, really. It had been proof he wasn’t, like, working for a homicidal robot or anything. That had been a legitimate concern, okay?

Not anymore. He kinda wishes the boss was a robot. This wouldn’t be a problem, then.

He rubs his eyes, puts the tablet away, and wills the plane to land faster.


	104. R(&B'sP), Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They may be dorks, and they may have been annihilated by Batman, but they *are* trained soldiers. They are professionals. They are good at their job…but Batman’s better. (Although I died a lot, so the real answer is that Batman resurrects. :p)

Antoine emerges from the crowded airport and promptly chokes on smog. He’d forgotten, in his year away from this accursed city, that it does not willingly support life. It hadn’t been bad on Halloween, is the thing. They’d evacuated everyone and without all the traffic and running factories and all, the air had been…kinda clear. At least until Scarecrow flooded the place with fear gas.

There’s no residual fear gas, right? He’s okay to be outside?

Eh, it’s probably fine. A little paranoia never hurt anybody anyway. Hell, it might be good for them-it should not have been as easy as it was to sneak a rifle through security.

Whatever. Maybe Gotham’s just apathetic. ‘Oh, another nut, okay. Whatever, buddy. Knock yourself out.’

Considering it’s a Wednesday afternoon, there’s not a lot of people out and about. Looking around explains this-they **are** out, they’re just huddled around coffee shops and bookstores, looking at their phones.

Figures.

He digs out his own phone and calls Jimmy. It takes him a few rings to pick up.

“Are you here?”

“Just got outta the airport. Anything?”

“No. I think it’s a private broadcast-you listen to me, you wet peanut shell chewer, if you crash and I have to reboot you, so help me, I will dismantle you and remake you as a hentai doll and sell you on Craigslist to the sketchiest guy I can find-don’t you do it, don’t you dare-”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Jimmy doesn’t seem to hear him. Antoine hangs up, hopes the servers don’t die, and sidles over to peek at somebody’s phone. They’ve got their earbuds in, but Black Mask is still gone and the boss is still real quiet, so he’s not sure what good they’re doing.

Oh, well.

He takes a minute to try and remember where he is and how to reach his destination. His mental map of Gotham is a fuzzy one. He thinks it’s partially blocked out for the sake of his mental health.

A weed sways in the cracks of the sidewalk. He side-eyes it (breeze or monster-plant?) and takes a few steps away from it. Okay. He’s by the airport, the mall is…the mall is on the other side of town. Ugh.

Fine. He’ll catch a cab and hope nothing happens to him. It shouldn’t. It’s not like he’s worried about being kidnapped. It’s just…what if the cabbie has a warrant or something, and they get pulled over, and the cop doing the pulling-over recognizes him somehow? They shouldn’t be able to, but…his luck is so poor. There shouldn’t have been a were-bat flapping around, either.

Whatever. He’s a little out of practice, but he’s…kinda sure…that he can subdue a cop. Pretty sure. Sure enough. As long as it’s not a lot of cops, he should be fine.

“Taxi!”

* * *

The mall was creepy before, but it’s worse now. At least before, when they were using it as their main base of operations, it was a little warmer. And better lit. Now? Between being generally abandoned and Batman having torn through it, it’s.

It’s a mess, is what it is, a labyrinthine mess that makes his skin crawl. It’s dark and cold and even with his flashlight he can only see a few feet in front of him. Well, barring a dusty, barely-glowing, spideresque robot clinging to the ceiling. He flips it off just in case the Riddler’s watching him.

He’s starting to panic, just a little, about not knowing where he is when his light splays across the statue of the horse. He thinks it was a fountain, once, but now it just reminds him of that shaky footage of the Scarecrow riding through the Narrows. The teeth are far too well-defined to be anything but demonic.

Maybe it’s mean, but he’s grateful, he really is, that Crane and Richardson are dead. Well. Supposedly. He thinks they’ll stay that way-he was falling apart and she was coughing up blood by the end.

He gives the statue a wide berth, just in case, and takes the tunnel to the left.

It’s so quiet. It didn’t used to be. Used to be you could hear, at the very least, the hum of machines and indistinguishable conversations no matter where you were. That, and there was always somebody on the loudspeakers-the boss, Scarecrow, somebody relaying information about this, that, or the other…

Now there’s just the faint noise of traffic above him and his own echoing footsteps. Nothing’s moved in here, right? No monsters or murderers or-

**“FRAG OUT!”**

His yelp of surprise echoes down the hall. His phone. It’s just his phone. Okay. He’s okay. Everything’s okay.

When he answers, it’s to a smug, “He’s here-hey, buddy! You, uh, you far?”

“Fuck you,” he seethes, face flaming. Mark laughs and there’s the crackly **snap!** of gum.

“You’re too poor. Where are you?”

“On my way.”

“Yeah, we heard.” We. What we. How many people are here? How many people does he need to remember suck? “Are you lost?”

“I’m not the one that got lost. That was Riley.”

Silence. Then, “Riley says you can go die in a fire.”

Antoine hangs up. They don’t deserve him anyway.

If he’s going to be honest (and why not? Nobody else is nearby.), he’s glad it’s not just him and Jimmy, because that would boil down to ‘him and the tech support’. That would end badly. Hell, it may end badly anyway, but there’s now at least three people and the tech support. It’s something.

It smells like damp down here. And it’s **freezing**. The coffee pot they had in the main room had better be operational.

Five more minutes of walking brings him into the vicinity of life. There’s a thin, thin beam of light ahead of him now. No voices, but maybe Jimmy told Mark to shut up. Yeah, that’s gotta be it-every step closer makes the low hum of a computer that much louder. At least something’s running…but he doesn’t smell coffee. Why doesn’t he smell coffee.

Maybe his nose is too clogged from the smog outside. Hopefully that’s all. That better be all. He’s pretty sure his contract says, ‘no rescue missions before coffee’. It’s supposed to, anyway.

He nudges the door open, smells nothing, and is immediately hefted off the ground. His bag hits the floor and he’s squeezed and CRAP CRAP HE’S BEING MURD-oh.

“Trent,” he wheezes, arms flailing helplessly. “air.”

The sausage rolls tighten around his ribs. He doesn’t even have enough room to kick his way free. Spots are dancing before his eyes. He can’t tell if the room’s swimming from lack of oxygen or if Trent’s sort of…rocking him back and forth like a doll.

**Poppoppoppop!**

Wow. He’s never paying for a chiropractor again.

Trent finally sets him back down. Antoine thinks his lungs have been flattened.

His nose isn’t clogged, apparently-he sees the coffee pot on the far wall. There is a Batarang in it, looks like it’s been there for a while. That **monster**. That…that…that son of a flea-ridden mongrel **bitch.** That diarrhea pie! How could he?

The sad, shattered remains of the coffee pot aside, the room is…crowded. It’s jammed full, actually. There’s what, twenty, thirty people in here? This…unexpected. Appreciated, but unexpected.

And they’re all looking at him. What. What’s going on? Does he have something on his face?

“What?”

“Boss left you in charge,” Mark says slowly, as though he’s speaking to a spectacularly stupid child. “So what do we do?”

“That was a year ago!”

“It’s not like he called to take it back.”

“Come on!”

Mark shrugs.

“If this goes tits up, I’m not taking the blame.”

Ah. There it is.

He rubs his face, wishes the coffee pot would resurrect like everything else in this town, and makes his way to the computer.

There’s not much left. This whole wall used to have monitors and hard drives. Now it’s got a laptop that Jimmy probably brought with him and one weak, gasping drive that he’s surrounded with cheap hand fans he probably bought at Circle K. Hell, the drive itself looks like it’s been cobbled together from the remains of its fallen comrades. But it’s…kind of working.

“Anything?”

“No. Fucker’s good. I’d be impressed if it wasn’t an inconvenience.” Quick tapping. “Nngh…okay. Some asshat put the thing up from the beginning. We probably don’t have to worry about police interference-they’re tied up at a preschool.”

“What?”

“Uh-huh. Blackhead or whatever his name is has hostages, said if anyone tries to rescue the boss-fuck.”

What. What is-oh. Yeah. That’s bad.

Well, it’s mostly bad. Black Mask has strolled back in. The boss is awake, though, at least a little bit-when his head’s forced up by what looks like a drill bit, he coughs and slurs, “F’you wanted to screw me, Roman, you could’ve asked. M’a cheap date.”

**Oh my god. Why.**

Black Mask is equally unimpressed. The bit whirs for half a second and he finally speaks. His voice is a little echoey, but it’s flat and there’s an underlying current of Extreme Danger.

“Shut up, kid.”

“Tha’s extra. M’a a natural screamer.”

That provokes a laugh, bitter but still darkly amused, and the bit lowers.

“So I’ve heard.”

“At least he’s verbal,” Mark’s murmuring. “That knee looks dislocated, though…that’s gonna be fun to get back in place…”

Mask sets the drill aside and reaches up to the meat hook. A second later the boss hits the floor with a choked-off yelp. He rolls onto his back, gasping a little, and spits, “M’not a beggar, though. Sorry to. To disappoint.”

Mask chuckles.

“Give it a minute, kid.” That drill is big-looks like a small gun more than anything. Looks heavy, too. “Don’t count your mooks and all that, y’know.”

“Go to Hell.”

“After you.”

That sounds bad.

“Tell me you have a lock.”

“I’m trying-”

**WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!**


	105. R(& B's P), Pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having played with my dad’s big scary power drill a few weekends ago, I’m pretty sure it’d be hard to *avoid* going straight through somebody with it, so we’re just gonna figure Roman has Skills and knows how much pressure to apply to avoid accidentally attaching Jason to the floor/hitting something instantly fatal. (What, you thought I was gonna knock him around and just let him go? Tell me, what color is the sky in your world?)

Jason probably should have recognized that today was going to suck when he woke up to the sun punching him in the face. And to his phone ringing.

He’d knocked the phone to the floor swiping for it and the jerk had answered itself when it landed. And t **hen** the sweet, sweet tones of an angry mob boss had jerked him the rest of the way to consciousness.

“Hood! I know you’re there, you sorry sonofabitch!”

**S’too early for this shit…**

Then again, the video message of the kid getting acid dropped on his hand, drip by burning drip, had been a great wake-up motivation. He’d done what he’d been asked-go to the abandoned subway terminal on Bond Street and take a ride with the nice men to his, ha, final destination. And even then, he’d figured he could get out of this.

The kid had, when he’d entered the dark little room, been crying but otherwise…alive. Hand burned to Hell (Sionis would pay for that one), but alive. Okay. He’d kick some ass, take Kid to a hospital, all would be well, never fear, citizens.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he’d said. “I’m gonna get you home, you’re gonna be just fine-”

Then there’d been brains and bits of bone splattered across his helmet and a television had switched on, giving him a live feed of the preschool in Ryker Heights. And, more importantly, Sionis’s goons settled comfortably inside said preschool.

Well. What choice did he have, really?

And that’s why he’s here now, flat on his back with one knee hopelessly out of joint and the rest of him a throbbing bundle of nerves. He’d like to say he’s had worse, but, uh…he can’t without-a-doubt confirm that, so.

He doesn’t want to die, not really. Not like this, anyway. But Bruce…f’Bruce really **is** that thing flying around Gotham at night, he’s not gonna come. He can’t. S’been made real clear-anyone tries to save the Red Hood, that preschool goes **BOOM!** If Bruce does show up, Jason’s going to have to kill him. For real this time.

No, he can’t come. Part of Jason hopes he’s not watching, either. Ideally, he doesn’t know anything. Like it’ll matter-Jason’ll be dead and not have to deal with his broody shit, but still. If he doesn’t…it’s not fair, for him to have to watch him die twice.

It’s hard to breathe. Part of it’s because he remembers the last time he was at the mercy of a psycho, and part of it’s the broken ribs. His short fall didn’t do him any favors. Sionis’s hand (hot calloused sticky **get off** ) caressing his face isn’t helping, either.

“Shame that the clown had to mess up your face, kid,” he says, low enough that the camera probably doesn’t pick it up. “I could’ve gotten a good price for you otherwise.”

“Fuck off.”

That gets his head knocked against the floor. The room swims…but it was already swimming.

“Eh, I’d have to cut your tongue out before I tried,” Sionis continues, reaching up to ruffle Jason’s hair. “That attitude of yours is a real problem.” He’d love to make a quip, but Sionis’s other hand is resting just above his dislocated knee and never mind that it hurts-

**No no please I don’t want-**

It takes him a minute to realize that the huffed whines are coming from **him.** Sionis laughs, pats the brand regretfully, and leans over to pick something up. The hand on his leg finally leaves.

**Please, just get it over with…**

A piece of paper slaps against his stomach, the force knocking the breath out of him. Then there’s pointy pressure, and that starts to rotate.

He thinks he blacks out, but there’s screaming echoing in his ears. When the whirring stops, so do the screams, and then he registers that A) his throat hurts and B) there’s agonized whimpers forcing themselves out of his mouth. He feels his spine straighten back out, wonders when he’d arched off the tiles to begin with. What was a dull mass of pain has now ratcheted into white-hot excruciation spreading from the…the…

He tries to lift a hand to feel…something, anything…and can’t. It doesn’t matter. There’s metal, he can feel that, there’s some kinda. Kinda metal in him. Screw, maybe, doesn’t feel very deep but it hurts it **hurts** please get it out-

Sionis rests his hand gently against his throat, fingers coaxing his head back so he has no choice but to look at him. He doesn’t have it in him to do anything but lie here and try very, very hard not to move.

“Any wisecracks, kiddo?”

When Jason doesn’t answer, the fingers lash out and wrap around his neck and **shake** him, sending new jolts of agony scurrying every which way. He bites his lips to try not to scream-like **hell** is he giving the bastard the satisfaction-but there’s no stopping the whimper that juts against his teeth.

That seems to be enough. Sionis drops him, pets his hair kinda like Bruce used to. Like he’s fragile and precious and cared for. Then he’s hauled upright, arms forced back over his head.

He really does pass out after that.

 

 


	106. R(&B's P), Pt. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reason 9,000 that Scary Scarecrows will never be Batman: my response, to this day, to rolling onto Bleake Island and seeing ALL those effing Cobra Drones and the Cloudburst is, ‘Batman is taking Catwoman and retiring to the Bahamas. Scarecrow can have Gotham. Screw you, Gordon, I QUIT.’
> 
> Early posting because I’m busy tomorrow and chapter six is long, so. Lucky you?

Antoine turns around and nearly trips over a kid he can’t remember. What the hell. Where’d he come from?

“Name?”

“Martin Donahue, sir.”

…

Nope! He doesn’t know this kid, and he wants answers. Now is not the time for weird fanboys (do those exist?) to be popping up to play soldiers.

He’s just opening his mouth to send him out-he already looks green around the gills, which is understandable, if useless-when the kid plows ahead, face flushing.

“I was here for Operation Savior, or I tried to be-the boss locked me in a containment cell and yelled at me for being underage and I spent the night kinda stuck in there but I can **help** this time, I swear-”

No wonder parents look so tired all the time.

“How old are you.”

“Eighteen?” Uh-huh. He raises an eyebrow and Martin wilts. “Okay, eighteen in a month, but-”

Frank pops up like every parent who’s been lurking around to catch their past-curfew kid and grabs Martin’s ear.

“Oh, no. You’re staying here.”

“But-!”

He doesn’t have time for this. One, what kind of…what was he last year, then, like sixteen?...year-old kid joins in on a ‘Kill Batman’ crusade? Two, NO. Just no.

“As your commanding officer, I order you to stay here. You can help with the computer if you have to. I catch you out there, Trent here is gonna bring you back and tie you to a chair. That containment cell? Real cushy in comparison.”

The kid sulks but grumbles, “Yessir.”

It’s something.

He turns back to the screen, suddenly grateful he doesn’t have any more coffee in him. The boss is either unconscious or damn near-his eyes are closed and the screaming’s stopped and he’s not jerking anymore. Not that it helps-it doesn’t. He’s. There’s a…

Antoine has done things in his life that he’s not proud of, okay? But he’s never taken a goddamn power drill to a twenty-something kid who’s already not fighting back. That falls under the umbrella of, ‘sick, twisted and wrong’.

“He’s still breathing, at least,” Mark says quietly. There’s no annoying chewing and when Antoine sneaks a peek over there, his jaw is still. Did he swallow his gum? Wow. “And it couldn’t have gone too deep…damn, I’m not looking forward to taking it out.”

Black Mask sets the drill aside and, after a few minutes of crouching over him like a creeper, maneuvers the boss back onto the meat hook, giving them all a good look at what the sign…attached…to him says: **Who killed Cock Robin?** *

“Huh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Antoine says shortly. “Keep trying to trace that. Riley, I want you to take a squadron and check out that preschool. If there’s a way to free the hostages, you take it. The rest of you see what we can scrounge up that works around here. There’s gotta be at least one crappy sentry gun somewhere, I want it found. Trent, you’re with me. We’re taking a ride-Martin, I catch you sneaking into that preschool squad, I will bludgeon you over the head here and now.”

He’s expecting a little bit of argument. He doesn’t want any, but he’s expecting it. What he gets instead is a sudden burst of activity.

Good.

Trent keeps his mouth shut until they’re a few hallways away. **Then** he nearly puts Antoine through a wall when he bumps his shoulder and says, “Where are we going?”

“To find the boss.”

“How.”

“Intimidation and violence,” he says, “and a little bit of well-intentioned theft.”

 

*It’s common (criminal, anyway) knowledge that Red Hood and Robin 2 are the same. Street thugs wonder if he’s a vengeful zombie, but the Gallery just likes to use this against him (and, if available, Batman).


	107. R (&B's P), Pt. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My memory could be deceiving me, but I wanna say one of the mooks in the Red Hood DLC says something about buying or selling guns to Penguin, which implies that, as ever, Ozzy's out of jail. (Then again, the Nightwing DLC is literally Dick keeping him in jail, so…I don't even know, guys, he's here for plot purposes, just roll with it. Maybe there was a technicality.)

How Penguin skipped merrily away from a forever jail sentence is beyond Antoine. He's gonna chalk it up to 'so much corruption' and be grateful, because the guy Knows Things.

They, uh, they stole a car to get across town. To be fair, they didn't steal it first-they saw a guy take the keys from the (presumed) owner at gunpoint. Then Trent just…sort of stepped in.

Antoine feels a little guilty about it, though. The owner was very grateful, but then he started screaming at them when they got into the car instead. Oh, well.

This isn't his first illegal thing. He's also guilty of underaged drinking (and underaged hangovers, good GOD), and last year probably counts as a bit of…well, he's gonna call it Light Treason because it really didn't end **that** badly and it's not like Gotham hasn't been taken hostage before. This is, however, his first time stealing a car. Like, a civilian car. It doesn't count when you're fleeing a burning building and take whatever jeep happens to be lying around.

This car's a piece of shit, though, **and** it's a stick and it's been a while since he had to drive stick. He may or may not kill it at a stoplight two blocks away.

"Really."

"Shut up."

"Why did you always drive?"

"Because the boss can't. Remember? He always goes ninety miles an hour and jumps gaps and tries to take turns hard enough to get onto two wheels."*

The car's quiet after that. Traffic's bad, which means Antoine gets to sit and tap at the wheel and conjure up all sorts of Bad Things that are probably happening. On the bright side, nobody's called to report that the boss is **dead** , but…

He blames Batman. Batman's not doing his friggin' job, for one, and for two, he's the one who apparently dressed Little Arkham Knight up as a stoplight and said, 'go punch serial killers!' What kinda weirdo tells a teenager to go pick fights with maniacs? And then leaves him with one of said maniacs?

Not for the first time, he hopes Batman flies into a plane's propellers and dies horribly.

**Not now.**

But they're still stuck, a good ten minutes away from their destination, which means that all the Wikipedia articles he'd looked at after are coming to the surface. Batman-Bruce Wayne, he knows that's his name but whatever, he's Batman-had called the boss Jason. It's not like it was hard to find the only Jason associated with the man was his middle kid. Disappeared at fifteen, declared dead a year later. Makes you wonder.

Makes Antoine a little sick. He's not sure which is worse-sending your own child out to pick fights with crazy people or finding a rando and making them do it. And the fact that he's not popping through a vent now? Ha, that's not helping. Surely he knows. He **has** to know. It's a fucking livestream! The New Housewives of Gotham City know, for chrissake!

He considered having Jimmy try to cut the feed-people don't need to see this, they just **don't** -but honestly, if Mark can keep an injury catalogue, the boss's odds of survival are improved.

Not that they're bad. He'll be fine. He's a stubborn bastard, he'll be fine, he'll grumble and go on about them coming back to Gotham and drawing attention to themselves and blah, blah, blah, but he'll be up and around in a week or two like he always is.

Well, maybe three weeks, that knee looks pretty messed up and Mark's gonna be on his ass about tetanus and all from the…from the screw. But the point still stands, he'll be fine, they'll find him in no time.

He's always fine.

* * *

The plan is to ask nicely, with maybe a touch of 'surprise, fool' obtained by kicking the doors open. Unfortunately, Penguin's a paranoid asshole and the minute the doors fly open a piece of the wall on the other side of the room just sliiiiiides down and a gun makes itself visible.

Crapsticks.

They hit the floor. Bullets do not start flying.

Okay?

"What is-you're not him." Penguin sounds disappointed. Antoine's just wondering where the hell he came from. "I should have expected, at this hour…I know you." He limps closer and they get up. "I **know** you."**

Oswald Cobblepot has never been the most intimidating guy. He's short, half-hunched over, and somewhere between weirdly fragile and fluffy. He looks worse than Antoine remembers-a little more unsteady on his feet, and his face is paler, with a big dark ring under the eye that doesn't…uh…have a bottle in it. One of his hands is bound up and-God, he's a bad person for this, but it's the guy's own fault for rolling with it-it looks like a damn flipper.

He tilts his head to look up at them and barks out a wet laugh that Antoine refuses to admit sounds like a turkey.

"So some of you avoided jailtime, eh, lads?" He flaps his uninjured hand at the gun and the panel goes back up. It's good work-even now, knowing where it is, Antoine can't pick it out. "I'm impressed. Better than half of my crew."

Yeah, well, Antoine's met Penguin's crew. He remembers one of them calling him 'soldier boy' and challenging him to 'a good ol' knock-down Gotham street brawl'. That had never actually happened, because the goon had been very, very drunk to begin with and had…sort of…fallen down.

Penguin's not hiring the cream of the crop, here.

"You here for a job offer?"

Penguin wishes he could afford them. Maybe a year ago he could have, but now he's probably broke as hell.

Still. Diplomacy is key. And if Trent looms a little, well…a little intimidation never hurt anybody.

"We're looking for the Red Hood." Which, for the record, is the dumbest goddamn name. It's not a hood. It's a shiny red helmet. Okay, yeah, he has a hoodie on over it, but STILL.

Penguin laughs again and has the audacity to turn around and waddle away.

"First come, first served when it comes to vengeance, gentlemen," he says. "Better luck next time."

"That's not why we're here."

Penguin stops and his back stiffens up before he turns around, eyes cold and jovial smile gone.

"Is that so."

It's easy to forget, when half the city is overrun by freaks who make death traps and poisons, that Penguin a dangerous little bastard. The boss says he had a museum of victims, years ago, but nobody can prove it. Antoine doesn't doubt it, though. That'd be the most normal thing for one of these freaks to do. (Looking at you and your personal attack-Robin-thing, Scarecrow.)

"I know you know where he is, Cobblepot," he says mildly. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"It's none of my business what Roman gets up to in his spare time. Now get out, we're not open."

Hard way it is.

"Trent."

The look of helpless rage on Penguin's face is hilarious despite the circumstances. It turns to pure, flailing fury when Trent plucks him up by the collar, sending his hat rolling under a table and his cane clattering to the ground.

"Batman won't kill you," Antoine says amicably, leaning against a nearby table. "He won't even hurt you that badly. But we just might, unless you start sharing."

"Piss off."

He's got guts. But now is not the time. As Penguin finds out pretty much immediately-Trent hefts him up a little more and throws him, screeching like something out of _Jurassic Park_ , into the bar.

"That was your freebie. Next up is your arm getting ripped out of joint. Ever had that happen? It makes this really freaky tearing noise-"

Penguin laughs at them as he struggles up, flipper-hand thudding against the bar and shattering a shot glass. Bits of glass poke through the bandages, bringing pinpricks of red to the surface.

"Ain't you boys ever heard of common courtesy?"

"You're 'bout to lose your hearing-" Trent starts, but Penguin only laughs some more.

"S'manners, not to snitch on a fellow Rogue. And unlike some people in this town, I was raised right."

They don't have time for this.

"I don't care what you have to pull off, just make sure he can still talk-"

"Boss? Everything, uh, okay in here?"

Shit. Backup-oh. Never mind. Dove Marquis couldn't be the backup if she tried…although. Although. Antoine has a very clear, very unsettling memory of her hugging the boss and not losing a hand. Maybe…

"Deal with him," he says anyway, because screw Penguin and his flipper and his weird mobster rules. "We're looking for the Red Hood."

Penguin squawks something about keeping her mouth shut. Trent pulls him back over the counter, glass shards tearing through his suit, and pokes the, uh, the bottle-monocle.

"Holy shit, it's real."

"Of course it's real, you overgrown emu!" Penguin screeches. "Put me down! Now!"

Marquis doesn't look all that upset. Antoine figures that Batman probably does this all the time and tries not to feel offended.

"I can't help you," she says. "But if you find that bastard Black Mask, tell him I didn't appreciate having to reorder a six-foot penguin statue from Amazon at eleven o' clock at night."

Across the room, Penguin changes gears so fast, a Mario Kart driver would be jealous.

"What was that?"

"That's, uh, that's why I came in," she says carefully, and really? Now? Now is not the goddam time for this! "We found out. What happened, I mean. To the, uh, the giant penguin. We're not sure if he was aiming for it, exactly, but, uh…when he was transporting the T-Rex-" What even is this crazy town? What the hell? "-it, uh. It turned on, and…yeah."

Penguin is silent, wheezing as deeply as possible with Trent's hand around his neck.

"I take it back," he spits at last. "I don't know where he is **exactly** , but he's been skulking around Chinatown. Try there."

T-Rex. There was, at some point, a T-Rex. That destroyed a giant penguin.

"If you're lying, we'll be back," he warns. Penguin scoffs and Marquis looks at him with tangible pity. Whatever. "Drop him."

Trent obliges. To his credit, he even waits until they're back in the car to twist over and go, "T-Rex?"

"I'm just trying not to think about it."

"What the hell."

"I don't know-pick **up** , you useless fucker-heeyy we might have something."

"-o God I will hack you up into spare parts and burn them and dance on your little electronic grave if you don't-what? Antoine? Where are you?"

"Chinatown. Black Skull or whatever his name is has been hanging around Chinatown, apparently. What's going on?"

"The feed's cut."

"What."

"Yeah, I don't know, I don't think it was on purpose. It was there, and then it blipped out. I had the signal, so I'm trying to at least reestablish it on our end, but, uh…yeah. Not good."

Great.

"Anything…happen?"

There's a rush of static.

"I don't know what…Skull said something, Brainchild…I don't know, he was with it enough to kick him in the head. Cracked it a little."

It's like he's not even trying to not die.

"You gotta be kidding me."

"Nope-waitwaitwait-I gotta go-GOTCHA, BITCH-"

**Click.**

Antoine sighs and, when they reach a stoplight, reaches up to rub his temples. If there is a 1-800-WTF-BOSS number, he needs to know what it is.

* * *

* _I got shot once and the boss took the keys, and honestly, I'd sooner drive with my severed leg in the cupholder than go through that EVER AGAIN.-Antoine_

**No, Penguin does not remember the entire army, it's that Antoine-and Trent, for that matter-were usually hanging around Jason as backup during negotiations.


	108. Homeostasis, Pt. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason will suffer hugs from people he knows very well (Mz. May, for example) and kids-the former because he’s mostly sure they won’t try to hurt him and the latter because the kids he deals with are frequently upset and probably need it. Everyone else? Please let go. He might not actively shove you off, but he doesn’t like it very much.

“Mister Red!”

“Sha-amrock shake, do not, don’t do that, I’m gonna come down, **don’t climb up here.** ”

One, aww, crap, he sounds like Bruce. Two, Bruce might have had a point when he told Jason not to scale the cave walls early on.

Whatever. Jason makes his way down to the little balcony-thing, because Lisa is now glaring at him with that special pout kids pull when they’re going to make your life Hell if you don’t do as you’re told. He’s barely gotten down there when she latches onto him (ow, ow, side not happy, breathe evenly).

“Hey, kiddo.”

“You’re okay.”

Oh, the guilt.

“Yeah, I’m okay, kid.” He pats her on the head. Honestly, the scariest thing about kids is the very real possibility of breaking them-he’s just envisioning, like, patting too hard and scrunching her up like an accordion. “Your mom at work?”

“S’her night off. She wants to say hi.”

He doubts that, but Lisa’s now pulling on his hand. No. Absolutely no.

“She’d probably feel a little better if I stayed out here,” he says, tugging his hand free and crouching down. “I’ll hang out while you go get her, I promise.”

“You’d better.”

“Cross my heart.”

She narrows her eyes at him but goes inside.

“Hey, Mom! Guess who’s here?”

It’s windy tonight, the nasty gusts sweeping up under his jacket and making him shiver. He makes a mental note to check around before heading home for the night, make sure everybody’s tucked up out of the weather. The kids have been pretty good about scattering come nightfall, but desperation’s an ugly thing.

He’s guiltily wondering how bad it would really be to vanish when Lisa returns, practically dragging her mother by the arm.

“See? I told you so.”

“Go inside, Lisa.”

“But-”

“Go inside. It’s cold and you need to be getting ready for bed.”

He wonders if that tone is just the Mother Tone-his own mom used it all the time. It works, anyway. Lisa darts inside without so much as a backwards look. Smart kid.

He’s just about to promise he’s not stalking them to murder them in their sleep when Lisa’s mom (what is her name, he knows it, he knows he knows it…) flings her arms around him and scares the shit out of him.

“Um-Ma’am-Miss-”

This is terrible. There are, quite frankly, an unreasonable amount of criminals in this city and none of them are anywhere to be seen. Come on! Surely one of them can, like, hold up the bodega across the street.

The bodega stays stubbornly crime-free and Jason resigns himself to being squeezed. He can’t even hug back, is the awkward thing here. His arms are trapped.

C’mon, Riddler! Hasn’t anyone in that bodega called you a giant green hemorrhoid?

“Thank you for saving my daughter.” Aw, shit, she sounds like two seconds from crying. HELP. BATMAN.

Bruce, the jerk, does not appear. Jason manages to pat her on the arm. That does it, gets her to let go and step back. Ahh, personal space.

“Lisa said you were pretty bad off.” Rat. He shrugs and takes back everything he said about someone robbing the bodega.

“M’okay. Looked worse than it was.”

She gives him the Eye but doesn’t push.

“I can’t repay you for that-”

“You don’t have to-”

“Sh. Let me finish.” Sh-ing. “I’m a nurse.” He knows. “If you need anything-within reason, I’m not stealing from my work-” He would hope not. “-you come to me.”

He is not going to do that, but he appreciates the gesture anyway.

Although.

“You work at a hospital, right?” She nods, brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Which one?”

“Mercy.”

Hm.

“If you get any patients who were wrapped in a cocoon-”

“What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but someone already died, so…anyways. If you get anyone, just…” He needs a website or something. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

“I have my phone.”

“Better. This is my current number, you ready?”

She puts it in, calls to make sure she got it right, and tucks her phone back into her pocket. He’s not expecting her to tell him to stay here and go back inside, but honestly? He’s a little scared to run for it. He needs this potential hospital link, for one thing.

She comes back with a plastic baggie of what looks like pumpkin cookies. What the hell? What is this? Why do people keep trying to feed him? Does he radiate ‘lost hungry duckling’ or something? He makes grown men cry in terror, for chrissake!

Upon closer inspection, there’s an ingredient list written on a sticky note. If he hadn’t known she was a nurse, that would be a dead giveaway.

“Thank you?”

She laughs a little and pats his arm.

“These are a little healthier than a food cart,” she says. “Fries are empty calories.”

Delicious empty calories.

He takes them anyway and, because he actually listened to Alfie, lets her watch him grapple back to the roof and leave. Manners are Important.

* * *

The cookies find their way into the hands of Lucas Grue, thirteen, self-appointed guardian of a handful of younger kids. They’re settled into an abandoned apartment building for the night. Little sketchy, lot dangerous, but out of the way and hard enough to get into that they should be all right. Doesn’t mean he likes it, though.

“You guys sure you’re gonna be okay? ‘Cause if you gimme an hour, I might be able ta-”

“We’re fine, **Mom** ,” Lucas snarks, tongue swiping out for orange crumbs around his mouth. “Jesus.”

“Stay off the streets tonight, you hear me?” The boy shrugs, eyes darting sideways. Jason resists the urge to grip his chin, knowing it’ll end badly, and snaps his fingers. “I mean it. Somethin’s goin’ on out there, stay in. The risk ain’t worth whatever money you can get. You set up for a couple’a days in here?”

Somebody sniffles and Lucas whips around fast, fingers going for a knife. He remembers that feeling. Never really went away, even before Bruce made him Robin, when he was the safest he’d ever been. Now? It’s worse.

These kids don’t deserve this kind of life.

“Yeah,” Lucas is saying, oblivious to the never-ending suspicion he’s in for, “we’re good. What’s going on out there?”

“Weirdo.”

“That’s nothing new. C’mon, man, you gotta gimme somethin’ here.”

“I don’t have to give you shit, brat. Just stay in at night for a little while, as best you can, okay? If I catch you out there without a damn good reason, I’ll be draggin’ ya back here by the ear.”

There’s a cackle from the shadows and a chorus of, “Ohhhhhh.” Lucas flips the group off without turning around.

“Okay, okay. Happy?”

“Frolicking with the unicorns,” he deadpans. “Be safe, guys. I’ll try to drop back by tomorrow, okay?”

There. Kids corralled, connection made, time to start moving on down his list of Questionable Laboratories. And his first stop? Gotham’s finest-Ace Chemicals.

* * *

‘How is Ace Chemicals still in business?’ is one of Gotham’s Great Mysteries. It’s right up there with, ‘what is the Joker’s real name?’, ‘do the butts match?’ and ‘whatever happened to Jason Todd?’

(Buzzfeed’s got a list of conspiracy theories for that last one. He’s considered submitting his own a few times, but really, the truth pales in comparison to ‘became a tentacle monster and fled into the sewers of Gotham to live with Killer Croc in peace and harmony’.)

However Ace is still running-bribery, murder, apathy-matters not to Jason. What matters is that the night crew is small and condensed into one room, which means he gets maximum panic when he crashes through a skylight.

Mean? Maybe. But effective.

“What do you want?”

That one guy in the back looks seconds from a heart attack, and it’s only because he’s a Nice Person™ that he refrains from saying, ‘your soul or your firstborn child, whichever you like more’.

“Information,” he says instead. “And I’ll know if you’re keeping something **back.** ”

One of them, a woman, maybe thirty, bolts. Or. Tries to. He shoots his line at her and catches her around the ankle, brings her crashing to the ground. Nobody looks very sorry for her. Really, barring the guy cowering in the back, everyone else looks bored.

“I didn’t tell ya to run.” He retracts the line. “What do you know about Gotham’s Mothman?”

Nobody speaks. God dammit, this is why he hates interrogating groups. Everybody thinks somebody else is gonna answer and nobody pipes up, Jes-us…

“You.” He points to the man in the back. Probably the foreman. “C’mere.”

He doesn’t want to. His coworkers…step aside. Ouch.

Jason stalks forward, comes to a halt in front of him, and cocks his head. That might be a whimper that he gets in response. Wow. That’s sad.

“You in charge?” Nodding. “Good-what? I’m not the health inspector, you don’t need to panic.” Although that bubbling vat of purple stuff probably needs a cover. One clown is enough. “I’m here about a moth.”

“I.” Oh, boy. Please don’t let there be tears. He hates to see a grown man cry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re suuuure?” He slings an arm around the man’s shoulders. “So you don’t know anything at all about weaponizing moth silk?”

The fact that there’s three labs in Gotham who admit to having that as a project is mind-boggling. But hey, at least they’re not working on the next atomic bomb!

“No?”

“The confidence there is downright inspiring, pal,” he deadpans. “Now c’mon, let’s cut the crap. That purple stuff over there looks awfully **flammable.** ”

“I don’t know anything!” Frantic gulping. Seriously. Nothing’s even **happened** yet. Ah, the power of the reputation… “I swear, I don’t know anything, I just make sure everyone’s got their hazmat suits on-”

“But you can get me into the manager’s office-”

Something-a Chapstick tube?-nails the side of his helmet with a solid **whap!** He turns, well aware that the motion is more ominous than he intends it to be, and surveys the huddle of workers. One of them is staring in horror at her friend-the one who tried to run.

“Goddammit, Tasha!”

“I panicked!”

What the hell.

“She’s from Metropolis,” her friend explains, giving him a what-can-you-do look. He nods in sympathy. At least she’s not a screamer-not like that one idiot playing _Five Nights at Freddy’s_ on the bus. Why do you come here if you’re scared that easy, huh? C’mon.

“And you moved here?”

“Job opening.”

Fair.

“How’re you liking it?”

Tasha shrugs.

“Robin broke into my apartment to use the coffee maker last week, so…”

See, it’s that kind of juicy gossip that makes this all worthwhile, and he’s keeping that little tidbit to get him out of deep shit with Alfred if he ever needs it. (Unlikely, but…)

“Well, Robin,”-and damn if it still doesn’t leave a bitter taste to use the name for someone else-“and I have the same general goal of making it so you can walk home without getting murdered by a freak in mask. So…maybe, uh, maybe don’t throw Chapstick at me again. Okay? Please?” The foreman is squirming in his grip and he turns his attention back to where it belongs. “You’re the only one panicking,” he says. “What do you know.”

“Nothing-”

Bullshit. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Don’t puke on me.”

“Wha-ARGH!”

He hefts the guy partially over his shoulder (gonna feel that later, ow) and grapples them onto a catwalk, safe from anymore flying beauty products and with a great view of the purple goop in the vat. Ugh. Why couldn’t it be amber? Or rose, rose is underrated.

“You know the Joker, right?”

“Please-”

“Well, he used to be a guy, like you. Until one day, a guy like me made him fall into a vat like that, and then, well…” He leans over, pressing the man’s back against the railing. “You tell me what I need to know, and I set you back on the ground. You try to lie to me, I dump you in there, and then I shoot you for cautionary purposes. Sound fun?”

Breath fogs against his helmet.

“Okay! Okay. I don’t.” A shiny stream of snot makes its way out of the left nostril and starts to pool by the corner of the mouth. Bleh. “I don’t know. What’s going on, okay, I just make sure it’s up to standards.”

“And who sets those standards?” Eyes flash towards the vat. Jason only feels a little bad for pushing harder and making the guy’s feet come off the ground a little. He’s got a good grip, it’s fine. “I **said** , who sets those standards?”

“Night manager! She’s not here, she leaves at nine, b-but I can get you in her office! I have a card!”

“Where is it.”

A shaking finger jabs at the office overlooking the floor. Pfft. He don’t need no stinkin’ card for that!

“Let’s go.”

“Wha-NO!”

All right, so maayyybe it wasn’t necessary to swing through the window in a shower of glass and screams, but it has the happy side effect of, er, jogging the foreman’s memory a little more.

“There’s a guy that comes here sometimes, some kinda scientist or somethin’!” Every time… “He comes in, they talk in ‘ere, sometimes he wanders around downstairs!”

“What’s he look like?”

“I dunno.” The foreman squirms and Jason drops him. What good is this guy, anyway? “I dunno, I always get kicked out when he comes! Trench coat, he’s got a big black trench coat, that’s all I know!”

Him and everyone else in this town. Whatever.

He steps over the foreman to take a look at desk. There’s a laptop cord but no laptop-must be at home with the night manager, then. He’ll have to go make nice with them, then.

“I want to talk to your manager.” Silence. He scowls, not that it’s visible anyway. “His address, buddy. I want his address.” Still no answer. What the hell? Somebody’s momma failed at imparting manners, looks like. “I promise I don’t have the Haircut, you’re not in trouble. Probably. Now c’mon, spill, or we see if you bounce.” He takes a few steps closer for good measure.

“I don’t know!”

“Do you know **anything**.”

“Lucy Dixon! That’s her name, I don’t know where she lives, I swear, man-”

It’s something.

“Fine. Now if I have to come back because you forgot something…” He crouches down, pulls the foreman up so that his head is against the helmet. **“You’re gonna be sorry.”**

The foreman faints. Wow. Still, if he’s got a medical condition…

Jason hauls his unhelpful ass back down and semi-gently drops him by the other workers.

“He fainted,” he explains, just in case they stage an uprising against him. “Don’t think he liked the ride.”

Nobody answers. He’s just leaving through the skylight when he catches a whispered, “He sounds kinda hot.”

“Shut the fuck **up** , Steve.”


	109. R(&B's P), Pt. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are reaching the end! At last! Roman has not pulled a 'your Red Hood is in another lair' so we. Are. ROLLING. Buckle up, hoes and gigolos, and check your flamethrowers at the door please-could be residual fear toxin down here and that shit's flammable.

They keep driving until they reach Chinatown. Finally, familiar territory.

It's worse for wear than it was last year. The buildings are crumbling and mostly abandoned, with clear signs of having been swallowed by plants. What's visible and intact is riddled with graffiti and waste, and the lights are dying, red neon flashing like a warning siren. There's no people out here-bits of movement, sometimes, but when he turns to look there's never anyone there.

It had been going down when they were here last year, don't get him wrong, but it wasn't like this.

They decide to check Crane's old safehouse first. Not for the boss, not exactly, but for weapons and gear. They'd had that place locked down and well-defended, in theory, so unless Batman blew it up when they weren't looking, there might be something good. Antoine's willing to acknowledge that they should have gone back to the mall, but that's **far** and they were halfway here and-

-and yeah. He doesn't. He's pretty sure that they'd know if the boss was dead, because these costumed freaks always leave the heads at GCPD or something. But. But. Yeah. The loss of feed is making him antsy.

The news, at least, has an update on the preschool-kids are starting to trickle out. There's some good news today, at least…

The old safehouse is cobwebby and crumbling, with broken glass from the containment cell still scattered on the floor. The heavy doors, the ones that held back…subjects…are wide open.

He'd forgotten how creepy it is in here.

"Think he's here?"

"Would you set up in here?"

Trent grunts and kicks a fallen chair. Said chair is broken, and that looks like dried blood on the snapped leg.

"C'mon-WHAT THE HELL-"

Antoine's plucked up by the collar and flung aside just as **something** comes tearing around a corner, screeching fit to burst, and lunges at them. He sees dulled color before there's a nasty **crack!** and the screeching stops.

Trent inspects his knuckles before crouching down.

"What?"

Oh.

Oh, no.

He hadn't…he hadn't seen the…Crane's toy. He hadn't seen it again, after that initial meeting. He'd kinda figured (hoped, it was a kid once) that they'd moved it or killed it. Apparently not.

It (it's not human anymore, s'just a shell) is sprawled on the floor. It's somehow worse off than it was last time he saw it-thin and hollow, with long, stringy hair and stains on its clothes. The nails have grown out and it looks like something broke its jaw at one point-it's crooked, like it didn't heal quite right.

He remembers Richardson laughing, beckoning them over with a soft, 'you'll like this, come here, come see'. That makes so much more sense now.

Shame she's dead.

"What the hell?"

"They, uh." He swallows, eyes a half-eaten rat a few feet away. "it doesn't matter. He's not…he's not **there** , anymore. Y'know. Lights on, nobody's home."

Trent looks at him weird, but he didn't…he doesn't **know**. He doesn't have that mental movie playing of Richardson tapping on bulletproof glass and calling out, _"Robin…_ _ **crowbar**_ _."_

He shakes his head. They don't have time for this.

He steels himself, remembers the kid screeching and clawing at the glass with enough force to snap a nail off, and grips his head.

"What are you doing-!"

**Snap!**

He'll remember that noise, he's sure, until he's old and senile. But he didn't have a choice. This isn't any kind of a life.

"C'mon. We gotta get moving."

* * *

They scrounge up ammo and a half-working infrared scanner, and they're back in the lobby, carefully avoiding the, ah, the body (he'll have to make a call, when this is over, so somebody can come and get it), when the phone rings. Antoine drops it trying to get it out.

"SHIT-hi, what's going on?"

"Where are you?" Jimmy demands. Sounds like he's in a car.

"Scarecrow's old safehouse in Chinatown. Why?"

"What do you think, idiot-hit the pedestrian if they don't move, it's their own fault for being in the way!-we're on our way down there now. We found him." There's a pause. "Probably."

"What do you mean, probably?"

"I mean-kid, I let you drive because you swore you knew how, now put the pedal down and ignore the goddamn stoplight! Yellow means speed up!-I kept hitting firewalls and weird shit that kept redirecting me, but I narrowed it down, and Google said there's only so many buildings that would work out."

Oh, Google said. Okay.

"Where are you?"

"Ten minutes out, maybe-private, if you slow down one more time, so help me Jesus-"

"Is the kid driving?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't know about this."

"What? What? You're gonna rat me out?"

Like there was ever any doubt.

"Come pick us up," is all he says.

Christ, what a day. Sun's going down, too, which is…probably bad. On the bright side, no one's even looking twice at them, despite the fact that Trent's got a bazooka (the one time they gave him a rifle, he broke it by accident) strapped to his back. No wonder this city's got such a high murder toll. People walking around with rocket launchers brings down the SWAT team literally anywhere else.

Whatever. Clearly the stupid colonists moved here.*

He hears the van before he sees it. It's not one of theirs, as he finds out when it whips around the corner. It, uh, appears to be a stolen pedo van, all beat to hell. Where they found it, he doesn't know and doesn't care.

It screeches to a halt by the curb. The door slides open and Jimmy calls out, "Get in, losers. We're going rescuing."

They've barely shut the door after them when the kid slams on the gas, throwing Trent against the wall and Antoine into him. Ow. Oh god. The PAIN, man. The pain.

"I cannot believe you let him drive."

"He wanted to help! This was harmless."

Oh, yeah, potentially getting into a major accident is harmless, uh-huh. Whatever.

"Where's the rest of them?"

"Other vans, took another route. Y'know. In case of, uh, flying ninjas."

Fair.

The van's less shitty than it looked on the outside. When they clip a stop sign a second later, Antoine suspects most of the damage came from its current adventure. Hoo, boy.

"Where are we going?"

"Seedy abandoned apartment building. One of, like, five hundred in this hellhole."

That's Gotham. Ugly skyscrapers, abandoned buildings, and warehouses. That's literally the only architecture here. And half of the buildings seem to be perpetually on fire. There's one now, even-that telltale orange gleam to the sky is a dead giveaway.

Martin narrowly avoids hitting a junkie with a shopping cart before taking another turn, glancing at a phone propped in a cupholder, and slamming on the brakes. Jimmy, fingers still touching his unbuckled seat belt, eats dashboard.

Serves the dumbass right. This is the last time he leaves him in charge, if this is what's going to happen, for chrissake…

The apartment is…well, Gotham doesn't do things halfway. Antoine's convinced that it's a relative of H.H. Holmes' murder castle. It's big, built with black bricks and peppered with broken windows. From the outside, it looks empty, like nobody's been in there for years.

Not that he wants to be a mob boss, because he's lazy, but if he were one, he'd be all over this place. Lots of exits to flee from Batman.

The scanner they picked up is…it doesn't work that well anymore. And to be fair, it looks like it's been kicked around a little bit. The, uh, the corners are chipped off. However! The screen still works. Getting out of the van to test it says it's pretty accurate-there's one or two fuzzy shapes that keep glitching out when he moves too fast, but by and large it registers that yes, there's five people in there. Flickers out really bad when he tests it from across the street, though, which is less than ideal.

Better than nothing. He's just glad they found one. Saves them from kicking in a thousand empty doors.

Another van, this one a much less creepy-looking soccer mom one, chugs around the corner. The back hatch lifts and a small, stuttering drone, power light blinking yellow, makes its way out.

"It won't get any better of a charge," Frank says, easing himself out and flapping a hand at Martin when he tries to come help. "What are you doing here?"

"I drove?"

Frank gets the Dad-look. Y'know, the one that all parents get when their kids are being so stupid that they can't believe they're still alive. Martin shrinks a little but stands his ground.

"Get back in the car."

"But, sir-!"

"You're on Batman watch," Antoine says, and then, because he's not a complete dick, collars Stevens when he gets out of the soccer mom van. "So are you. You so much as think you see a cape, call it in and don't draw attention to yourself."

There's more toys in the soccer mom van, it turns out. Riley emerges with one fairly pristine-looking sentry gun and a duffle bag containing a crap-ton of sticky mines and floor flares. The sentry gun gets passed off to the Batman-watchers.

Jimmy shoves up the armrest in the front seat and pulls his laptop out of the bag.

"I can kill any power they've run in," he says, "but they're probably gonna panic if I do. I'm not seeing much else I can get into, but if you leave me the scanner I might be able to bolster it."

Fine. That's why he's the tech support.

"Take it. When the rest of the guys get here, I want a perimeter set up. Any guards they find, shut 'em up however they see fit. I'll call you when I need you to cut the lights. If Batman crashes onto the car, well…I don't know what to tell you. Hit the gas and try to ram him into a building, I guess." Martin raises a tentative hand. Antoine prays to anything listening for patience. "What."

"If we take out Batman, do you want us to come in?"

"No."

"But-"

"You won't take out Batman. You might slow him down, but that's it. Make your peace with that. I see you in that building, you'll be scrubbing floors with a toothbrush until the end of time." Silence. That's better. He turns back to Jimmy. "E-mail me the blueprints, I'm not falling into some weirdly oversized laundry chute by accident."

His phone chimes a second later. Excellent…oh, god, this place is a maze. Come on, man! Would it kill you to pick a nice, one-story warehouse or something?

Whatever. Whatever. It's fine.

Still, though…no wonder this place is abandoned. The damn entryway looks like the gate to Hell.

This is gonna suck.

* * *

*Me, when the Arizona heat reaches 115. Whichever ancestor of mine thought, 'nice place to live!' was a damn fool. God bless the air conditioning.


	110. R(&B's P), Pt. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I don't *love* this chapter, but I've also redone it like fifty friggin' times, so HERE. TAKE IT.

This is terrible.

No, you don't understand, this is **terrible**. It's dark, there's cobwebs **everywhere** , and a rat the size of a large pastry just ran over what looks like half a femur. Closer inspection confirms that it is, indeed, half a femur, and it appears to have been...bitten.

 **And** there's cockroaches coming out of the walls. Hell, he can hear them moving in the walls, little **skri-skri-skri-skri-skri** noises that sometimes lead to a **whap!** as one of 'em gets pushed out.

Mark's muttering about infection risks and inconsiderate crime lords and **there's no way that drill was sanitized**. If it makes him feel better, Antoine is happy to let him bitch. He's not the target, after all.

On the, ah, on the bright side, they do indeed have the right location. They ran into some guy with a sawed-off shotgun in the lobby. Riley took him out before he so much as touched his walkie-talkie, so hopefully their cover hasn't been blown.

"Okay," Jimmy says, voice muffled like he's gnawing on a straw, "I got that scanner to be a little less crappy. It **looks** like you've got a cluster in the basement." Of course the basement. To be fair, there's no windows for Batman to crash through...if he's going to bother. "I'm thinking around...ten? Maybe ten. I can't tell, it's fuzzy. Five to fifteen, somewhere in that ballpark." That's not helpful. But he'll take the location! "I can't get the video to come back, but I got audio." There's an ominous pause and Antoine entertains the idea of going back out there to shake him. "I don't think he's dead, if it helps."

"What do you mean, you don't think?"

"Not much to pick up. Skull Man's just ranting about making examples."

Oh.

Now that they have a path, Frank releases the little drone, coaxes it down a hallway that looks like it's been on fire at one point. It's noisier than Antoine remembers these things to be, and it's not flying as smoothly, but it's staying in the air and not trying to fly into walls or zap them.

"I got enough of a charge to guarantee about four down," Frank says. "After that...could be down, could just be mild burns, could be nothing at all."

Better than nothing.

Riley's suddenly just **there** at his elbow and it's an effort not to flail and smack him in the face.

"Say something next time, god-" The smaller man scowls, opens his mouth as wide as possible, and shines his flashlight on the charred, scarred over lump that was once his tongue. "You know what I meant, fuck off."

The lump waggles before Riley shuts his mouth and signs, _these vents are huge._

Every vent in Gotham is huge. It's not fair.

"Yeah."

_Any lead downstairs?_

Blueprints say yes. And.

And.

Batman fits in the vents no problem. Riley? Riley is...he's not, like, tiny, but he's smaller than the Bat. (Like that's hard...) He can get in there **easy**. He doesn't like not having eyes, but...as they found out the hard way, vents are a valuable asset.

"Take the mines," he says, "Place 'em wherever you can without blowing yourself to Kingdom Come."

_Roger dodger._

He gets no respect, man. None.

All the same, they take the floor flares and Trent boosts Riley and his bag of Holy Hellfire into the nearest vent. Antoine steps away and switches over to Jimmy.

"I need you to guide Riley to the basement."

"Fine. Hey, you, c'mere, you're gonna learn today-people comin' up to your right."

Not two seconds later, a door opens and disgruntled voices drift down the hallway.

"-long are we gonna be here?"

"Long as the boss wants us here. You want money or you want death?"

"I want McDonald's."

Two of them, then. Probably. Not worth the drone. Absolutely worth a couple of bullets to the head, though. The gunshots echo-too much, too loud-but there's no shouting or running, so...

One of the bullets went through a skull and broke the wall. Roaches are scrambling to get out, **whapping** against the ground and trailing blood and fleshy bits behind them as they stream to another dark corner. A couple of them explore the blown-open heads; those scurry down the necks and under ill-fitting shirts. A few of them emerge by the fingers, but most of them don't.

It's not the worst thing he's seen. Not by a long shot. But damn if it doesn't make his stomach go, _bitch, if you feed me now, you'll suffer for days._

Bleh.

Jimmy, spared the sight and the noise, prattles on in his ear.

"You're good to go-there's a group of 'em below you, though, I think...I think that's where you wanna be."

"Thanks."

"Want me to cut the power?"

"What's it sound like down there?"

Silence. They move towards the stairwell, hop-scotching over the line of roaches because they are **big** and some of 'em look like they've got pinchers. Everything else in this city is dangerous, there is no reason to take stupid chances.

"I think he's conscious again," Jimmy says at last. "Everything's really garbled, but it sounds like he just said something about kissing your mother with that mouth."

He's going to kill him. It's happening. Yes, it will make this rescue mission pointless, but it will bring him great satisfaction and joy, and at this point, he's earned that. He'll be nice about it. He won't drag it out or anything, he'll just...

Yeah, he won't, he won't.

Beside him, Frank huffs and mutters, "I swear to God, I'll ground him. Somehow."

Ohh, will there be Disappointment? And Lecturing? Can Antoine sit in on this?

"Great. Keep us posted."

"Roger dodger."

REALLY-

Whatever. Whatever. He's gonna let it go, because he is a goddamned professional.

Antoine eyes the dark, creepy stairwell. Single file only. Looks rickety. May or may not lead to Satan's Laundry Room.

But it's not like they have much of a choice.

"Where's Riley?" he asks, because no way is he going down there without the sniper. There's typing in his ear and then a light **knock-knock!** above them that absolutely does not scare the crap out of him. Okay. Sniper located.

If there's mold down there, he's making the executive decision to blow up the building. For safety.

* * *

There isn't mold. There's a lotta scorch marks on the walls and floor, though. All in all, it's a ten-minute walk down those stairs and y'know what, that is unreasonable. Ten. Minutes. It's like every building in this city is built with the possibility of it being a criminal's lair someday.

The farther down they go, the more noises become apparent. At first it was just the movement of roaches in the walls, but then it got to hushed voices complaining about this place being creepy (he feels you, guys, he really does).

And then came the shouting.

Sionis! That's the bastard's name. He knew it would come to him eventually. He's, uh, he's never learned the skill of the Indoor Voice. He's not even screaming at the boss-he's screaming at either the camera or an unfortunate underling. Possibly both.

"-get this back online! Now! Before I turn your worthless ass into a sweater vest!"

A peek around the corner says there's seven of 'em. Ah. This must be the Batman Guard. Those poor **suckers** -

The doors behind them suddenly fly open and another guy flops out, clutching his hand-no, **stump** , what the HELL-and screaming bloody murder.

His cohorts swarm around him and one of them eventually takes pity and knocks him out via bottle-to-the-head. And then they see the drone. One of them panics and flings the broken bottle at it, shrieking, "It's the friggin' Bat!"

"It is not, you idiot- **shit** -"

Frank looks far too happy to be mashing that button. Antoine is not going to judge him. The drone shudders and lights up and for a second there's the sheer horror of **it's dead** , but then it...bucks, sort of, and spits a handful of yellow lasers. He knows, from very intimate experience, that those...hurt.

They must still hurt, judging by the jerking and cut off yelps. The three poor fools that got in the crossfire drop like stones. The remaining four start shoving each other to go investigate.

Frank fiddles with the drone controller a little bit, whaps his palm against it three times, and has just pressed the button again when the door opens and Sionis hollers, "What the hell is going on out there?"

There's light coming out of that room. Antoine thinks it's too much.

"Jimmy, cut the lights."

**Bzoom.**

That? That right there? That is the sound of a lot of generators dying at the same time. Antoine is just gonna hope they needed a kitchen or something, rather than mentally explore what else those generators might have been running. Whatever the case, the only light now is coming from the whining drone, which doesn't appear to be responding to anything Frank does. He whacks the controller once more, cursing, and it shudders, spits sparks. **Then** it spins wildly, lasers flashing across burned walls and scurrying insects, before it hits the ground and goes dark.

Antoine eases his rifle off his back. He's never liked shooting at night, or in confined spaces. Jungle? Great. Desert? He'll take it. Even inner city work, all right. But not this. And he doesn't love that door being open, either.

The hallway is quiet. Even Sionis, at last, has shut up. Eventually, somebody gets the balls to move, sneakers scuffing against the floor, and there's the creaking of metal being moved. Oh. They're inspecting the-

**BZZT!**

**Thud.**

Ah. God bless the anti-tampering system. How Batman had gotten by it, he doesn't know and doesn't care.

Okay...He hasn't heard anyone else move...they were all kinda huddled in the corner to the left...

Frank sets the controller down and Antoine hears him draw his sidearm. Trent's had his bazooka out and ready for a good five minutes, but he's hoping they won't need it.

His thumb finds the flashlight switch and clicks it on. Sionis's goons are still in the corner, watching the ceiling. One of them registers that they are clearly not in the ceiling, opens his mouth to shout a warning, and swallows a bullet instead.

And that's why you don't hire amateurs.

No one else comes running. At this point, the only one who has any sort of surprise left is Riley, and they give up even trying to be stealthy.

Behind the door, there's light again. Crappy, camping-lantern light, but still. It throws monstrous shadows and makes the (now empty, that can't be good) meat hook look...alive.

"You boys ain't the Bat."

He's been getting that a lot today.

Up close, Roman Sionis's voice echoes in the black skull that makes up his face. Antoine is sure it's creepy enough on a good day, but now it's chipped at the right side and there's a neat split running through one eye and down into the teeth.

His white suit isn't pristine anymore. No way the lantern shadows could make spots that dark, or that spattered. He's got a gun in one hand and the other-

The other is wrapped firmly around the boss's neck. He's on the ground, half-pulled upright and maybe not even breathing, but Sionis's hand is keeping his head up just enough to rest against the barrel of the gun.

"What do you want, huh?"

"Put the gun down and back off. Now."

"Nah." The teeth seem to multiply. "You think I didn't hear all that gunfire? This here? This is my insurance. You idiots make one move I don't like, and **bang-bang.** "

Some half-hysterical part of him, the part that got him on this crazy train, wonders if flipping him off and calling him a bidet would be a move he doesn't like.

Yeah, it would be. He lowers his rifle and reaches over to try and move Trent's arms into a less threatening position.

"But-"

"Stand down."

"That's right," Sionis says, leather thumb rubbing across the boss's lips and smearing blood into some twisted half-smile. "I don't know what you boys want, and I don't give a rat's ass." He moves his fingers to the ragged jacket collar and hauls the boss upright. Antoine sincerely hopes the rag doll impression is a last act of pettiness. "That's better. Excuse me, boys, I have business to attend to."

There's the tell-tale DANGER RED of a planted sticky mine blinking in the vent behind Sionis. Suddenly, getting out of the way seems very appealing.

**CRA-ACK!**

The mask splits off, both halves hitting the ground with a sharp thunka-thunka! Sionis whirls, dropping the boss with a furious, "YOU SONSOFBITCHES-!"*

It's the light. It's the light that makes his head look a literal skull, that's all-

**CRA-ACK!**

Guess they'll never know. Without the shield his mask provides, Riley's bullet tears straight through his left eye and keeps going into the darkened hallway, where it falls with a soft clink!

Sionis stays standing for another few seconds before his knees fold and he goes down like a collapsed Halloween prop. The boss...

For one godawful minute, Antoine's convinced he's **dead**. He's not moving, and he's not making any kinda noise. He's just crumpled up where Sionis dropped him.

Frank's the one that goes over first, works his way down and pulls him onto his back.

"Sir? C'mon. You gotta wake up." He gives him a little shake. "C'mon."

"Mm..."

**Thank God.**

Frank gives him another nudge and murmurs, "C'mon. Gimme words, here."

"Dad...?"

Well. He doesn't envy Frank this one. The older man closes his eyes for a second before taking a deep breath and reaching over to untie his wrists.

"Sorry, sir," he says gently. "Try to stay awake, okay?" The boss moves, gets maybe three inches off the floor before he chokes and drops back, gasping and twitching. "Sh-sh-sh, you're okay, you're okay...just stay still, we're gonna fix you up."

Riley kicks the vent open and narrowly avoids dropping down onto Sionis's back when he squirms out. The lantern suddenly moves and Antoine barely has time to move before Mark shoves his way through them and crouches down.

"Jesus Christ...okay...I don't wanna deal with that screw until we're out of here..." he murmurs, hands ghost along the boss's ribs. "Trent, don't wander off, I might need you to hold him."

It was bad enough being stuck on the other side of the camera. Up close? It's worse, it's a **lot** worse. The camera doesn't pick up little details like the ragged whorls of flesh around the screw, or the bite marks in his lips from him trying not to scream.

But then again, some of those scars on his face are older. Antoine thinks someone should have bundled the guy in bubble wrap a long time ago, preferably **before** a mad clown took a branding iron to his face.

Mark's hands settle on his knee and he grimaces, shifts his gum to the back of his mouth.

"Yeah, that's out...okay, boss, this is gonna suck but you deserve it for being a dumbass and not calling for backup."

He groans and mumbles something unintelligible when Mark pops his knee back into place, but that's all. Antoine eyes the blood on him and under the meat hook and doubts he'll wake up any time soon.

If he wakes up at all.

"Okay..." Mark's muttering, "I'll be amazed if those ribs aren't broken...gimme my bag-sir? Sir, can you hear me?"

"Mm..."

"C'mon, boss, you gotta wake up." He taps his cheek. "Now."

"Mark, I don't think..."

The bastard lives to prove Antoine wrong, apparently.** Despite everything, he cracks his eyes half-open and murmurs, "J-Jones...what...?"

"You son of a bitch," Mark says, but he's grinning anyway. "I swear to God, I will kill you if you die on me, so don't you dare. How many fingers?"

"N-no." He swallows and his eyes slide shut again. "Not 'ere. Y're not 'ere."

That can't be good.

"Did I say you could pass out?" Mark gives him a nudge. "Eyes open, look at me."

"M'tired," the boss whispers. "I wanna sleep... _please..._ "

 **"Hey."** Another nudge gets him to look at them again. "How many fingers?"

"Twelve...?"

"No. Okay...I'm not surprised...you gotta stay with me, okay? Anything I should know about?"

"Acme products'r. Giant r-rip offfff."

Mark sighs and unsticks his bangs from a gash above his nose.

"Just. Just don't pass out. Curse out Batman or whatever, I don't care, but don't you dare go to sleep on me." The boss closes his eyes again and Mark makes an angry-goose noise. "I said **don't**."

"M'wake."

"Stay that way."

"I." His eyes flicker, little blue lines that promptly squeeze shut when Mark feels his ribs a little more firmly. "Mm. I outr-r-rank you."

"Sure, boss. You can outrank me all you want as long as you stay awake, okay? Just hold still."

"Mm-hm." Mark's hands must get a bit too close to the screw, because he suddenly chokes on air and tries to move back. **"Stop-"**

"Sh. I'm not gonna mess with it right now, but I gotta make sure you're not gonna impale yourself on a broken bone when we move you."

Everything's silent after that, barring something dripping (a pipe? A corpse with its throat slit? Who knows, it's creepy down here, could be anything.), the **schlop-schlop** of Mark's gum, and the boss's labored breathing.

And, possibly the soft _whip!_ of a cape. Which is ridiculous, Batman's obviously not here because there's only one entry, but...uh...do cape-whips echo? He doesn't remember! Crap!

"We can't stay here," he says, inwardly preparing to be turned to ash where he stands. "Unless he's literally gonna die if we move him, we gotta go. **Now.** "

Mark throws him a look that could kill a man but stands up.

"Be careful with him. You know how you pick up babies? How you don't squeeze too hard 'cause their eyes'll pop out? Carefuler."

"S'not a w-w-"

He coughs and whines, hands fisting against the floor. Mark grimaces.

"Yeah, boss," he says softly. "I know. Just stay still, okay? You're gonna be fine, we're gonna put you back together and then we're gonna have a talk about doing stupid shit without us."

Trent picks him up, cradles him against his chest like a little kid. **That** gets a little more life out of him-a choked-off yelp and a gasped, "Pumme down, s-sssergeant."

"No can do, sir."

He tries shoving at the hand curling around his ribs. Trent doesn't even move it, like, a pity-inch.

"S'an order." He coughs again, an ugly noise that makes Antoine's lungs tighten in sympathy, and rasps, "S'the. The deal. Pumme down. _Please._ "

God bless Frank and his parenting skills-he shifts them out the way and says softly, "Kids are gonna be fine, sir. We got 'em out. Now we're gonna get you out, but you gotta hold still so you don't make it worse."

"Kids are fine?"

"Yup. Kids are just fine, not even a scratch. Only one knocked around is you. Look." Frank fishes out his phone and brings up what Antoine guesses is a newsfeed. "See? All good."

The boss finally stops struggling (such as it was) and drops his head against Trent's shoulder with a weak, "Hurts."

"I know. We're gonna fix you up, you're gonna be fine."

He doesn't answer this time.

* * *

*In _Asylum_ , you find one of Black Mask's...er, masks...on the wall. Seeing as he clearly wasn't decapitated, I guess he's got spares? *shrugs* I don't know, but it's there, so we're gonna say his face isn't really stuck like that. I guess.

**Let us all remember that in the comics proper, Jason decided to resurrect **right** around the time Tim Drake became Robin. Literally, Tim Robin'd, Jason clawed out of his grave like the world's most spiteful zombie.

**Fuck off, Tim. F'you can't rock the scaly panties, did you even count? I think not.**


	111. Angels on the Sidelines (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a lyric in Tool’s ‘Right in Two’.
> 
> There’s a snippet of militia chatter, after Deathstroke takes over, about ‘the Knight’s favorites being missing’. Now, granted, that probably translates to ‘they’re dead now’, buuuuut maybe not. So this is a slightly happier bit of canon divergence for Jason’s birthday, because there’s nobody around to stop me and he deserves nice things FOR ONCE.

Antoine can’t believe it. The one time-the. One. Time.-that he was optimistic about something, and what happened? They got taken down by a freak in a bat costume! It doesn’t even look like a bat. Okay, it’s black and has ears, but other than that, what the hell? Geeze…

Yeah. Things went badly. Things have been going badly all night. Which goes against all logic! They have tanks. They have guns. They have numbers. What does this guy have? A car and himself. Well. Two cars, because APPARENTLY he plans so far ahead that he needs a SPARE.

This is bullshit, man. They are an **army** , and this isn’t a goddamn video game. They should have crushed this guy. Why is he not crushed. Seriously, why.

Whatever happened (maybe Scarecrow’s set this all up for fun?), more than half of them are locked in the GCPD and the other half are scattered, with Deathstroke (Antoine’s only met him a few times-one eye, kicks ass, bitter) giving them orders. And Scarecrow is the world’s worst motivational speaker. Seriously, they don’t need a play-by-play on how scared they are. They’re good, thanks.

To top it off, their boss-their **actual** boss, the one who once incinerated a prison to get to them-is nowhere to be found. Antoine’s not hopeful. Last time he saw him, at the mall, with his helmet off (he’s just putting that aside for later), he didn’t…look so good. Tired. **Done**. As in, maybe ready to check out of life done.

Before he could say anything to maybe, y’know, **help** , that caped asshole had leapt up from a floor vent and knocked him out. It wasn’t his finest moment.

Finest moment or not, he’d gotten off easy-just left there rather than carted off to jail-and when he’d come to, he’d gotten the fuck out and gone looking for literally anybody else with half a brain. Screw Gotham. Batman wants it so bad, he can keep it. Antoine wants off this crazy train.

How that’s gonna work is another matter entirely. New Boss, Deathstroke, has made it real clear that nobody is leaving. At least, not with their heads. And Scarecrow’s given orders to bring the Knight in if they find him. Preferably alive, but he understands if that doesn’t work out.

Maybe they can all just hide in a sewer until this blows-no, never mind, the crocodile guy might be down there. THEY’RE SCREWED.

Whatever. Anyone asks, they’re patrolling. Y’know. Half-assedly. And, uh, they don’t have enough guys to take on the Bat, which is why they’re ducking inside every time something moves too fast.

Frank’s pissed as all hell at this recent development. He’s developed a renewed dislike of Batman since the Mall Disaster, and if his prosthesis hadn’t been damaged, Antoine suspects he’d be gunning for the Bat without them. Unfortunately for him, it got fucked up big time, and it’s all he can do to walk on it. Trent offered to carry him and the resulting look shut that down pretty much forever. They’ll have to steal a car if they can find one that’s not trashed.

“-let kids out to pick fights with serial killers,” he’s seething. “What the fuck is **wrong** with him?”

Yeah. That, uh, that’s something. Antoine’s the first to admit that there’s big puzzle pieces missing, but Batman had…the boss said…

They really, really need to find him.

“There’s a freak nailin’ bodies to walls! The hell! I wouldn’t have let Sam walk home alone in this city, let alone dress him up like a stoplight and tell him to go punch the maniac in the face!”

Nobody answers. In the distance, the Riddler demands that Batman come to Divinity Church. Antoine whole-heartedly admits that, if he does nothing else tonight, Batman will kick Riddler’s ass. That guy’s **annoying** and he left those stupid trophies all over their friggin’ hideouts. How he managed, nobody knows. Nobody cares. They’re there, and they couldn’t even, like, throw sheets over them because they just threw out sparks and caused small fires.

The Riddler’s still talking. He’s ranting about Batman being too stupid to fail properly. He’s gotta run out of air sometime, right?

Not that it matters-a few streets away, there’s a now-familiar **VROOM!** and Antoine’s mouth goes dry. They need to get off the road.

“Guys…”

In the sky, something screeches. Hell no. Hell no. None of that. They can sit here like fools, he’s finding a nice alley to hide in.

He ducks into the nearest one and very nearly trips over the Arkham Knight.

He looks…not…not like the Knight, anymore. Not really. His helmet’s gone-the red one’s sitting next to him, though. He doesn’t see him-or doesn’t want to-and Antoine’s at a loss. They didn’t get a great look at him earlier, what with the Bat n’ all, but now…Christ almighty, he’s a **kid**. Antione will stake money that he’s not old enough to drink, what the hell…

That’s not the worst of it. He’s young now, but that brand on his face looks like it’s a few years old already. The implications are…well. He’s done some things he’s not proud of. He’ll cop to that. But not…he wouldn’t…

It doesn’t matter. Kid or not, tragic backstory or not, he’s still the boss (maybe not the Knight, now, but still), and Antoine, at least, is willing to stand right here and wait for orders.

Y’know. If the boss is with it enough to give them. If not, maybe they can knock him out and just take him with them. It’s for his own good.

He’s not going anywhere, clearly, and Antoine hopes he doesn’t pull a ninja while he collars the others.

“Hey,” he hisses, “c’mere.”

“What?”

“I found him.”

He’s nearly run over, but the boss (Jason, Batman had called him Jason) doesn’t even look up at the commotion. Frank gives him about a minute more before struggling to the ground in front of him and saying, “Sir?”

 **Now** he looks up, eyes blank, and for a second Antoine’s not sure he recognizes them at all. When he finally does speak, his voice is cracked and raw.

“What are you doin’ here?”

Frank bypasses the question and Antoine practically **sees** him go, ‘Dad Mode: Activate’.

“You okay?”

Silence, filled only by the pounding of the rain and Riddler’s ranting in the distance. Jason doesn’t answer, just puts his head against his knees. Antoine nearly misses the whispered, “I don’t know.”

 **I don’t know.** Three syllables. Three terrifying, we’re-probably-screwed syllables. A shadow moves and everybody flinches before realizing it’s just a gust of wind blowing a branch.

Frank reaches out and breaks every rule, ever, by putting his hand on the Kn- **Jason’s** shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“’Ve heard that before,” comes the tired mumble, and there’s a collective cringe. Antoine does **not** wanna know details. What little he got earlier (“I trusted you! And you just left me to die!”) is enough, thanks. Explains things, though. Like the incinerated prison.

Frank does not remove his hand and when Jason doesn’t move or make him remove it, he pulls him into a very awkward-looking hug and breathes, “S’gonna be okay, I **promise**.”

Antoine’s expecting violence, or at least complaint. Neither of those things come-Jason doesn’t return the hug, but he doesn’t pull back or draw a knife and eventually he rests his head on Frank’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

Frank releases him after several minutes and stands up, holds out his hand.

“C’mon, boss. It’s cold and no offense, but this place creeps me out. Too much weird shit.”

Jason huffs a laugh, shaky and cracked, but takes the hand.

“You have no idea. Used to be worse.”

“Worse? No. No. **How.** Wait, I don’t…no. Let me keep what nice dreams I have left,” Mark begs. “This is Hell. I draw the line at murder-plants, boss, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

The smile he gets is shy and frail but **there** , and Antoine is just starting to think that maybe they can get outta here and rebuild or something when the Goddamn Batman drops out of nowhere and blocks the way out of the alley.

Oh **hell** no. Antione has had just about e-fucking-nough of this asshole making them look like idiots. His gun is in his hands and aimed at one of the weak spots before he can blink.

So is everyone else’s.

The Bat just stands there-is he blinking? Who the fuck knows-and even though Antoine still has phantom bruises from the first time they sparred, he moves between him and Jason.

“Just say the word, sir,” he says, finger tense on the trigger, “just say the word and we’ll end this.”

“Stand down.”

That’s…not the word Antoine was expecting.

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

And it’s probably because he sounds so hoarse (he’ll probably lose his voice, that’ll be fun for the whole family! Not.), but for a second he sounds like he’s got his modulator back on, sounds more like the Knight.

Antoine lowers his gun. Grudgingly. And minimally-the Bat makes a move, he’s going down.

“What do you want.” This is directed at Batman. “Don’t you have people to save?”

Batman moves forward and stand down, Antoine’s fine ass, he’s not gonna be one of the poor saps left hanging off a gargoyle.

Behind him, Jason sighs and nudges Antoine to the side.

“Well?”

“We need to talk.”

“No. We don’t.”

If the Bat thinks he’s gonna force a conversation, he’s got another thing coming. At this close range, there’s no way he can hide on a fire escape or somethin’.

“Jason-”

“Just stop. I get it, you’re **sorry.** That doesn’t fix anything.”

Batman seems to shrink, a little, but only for a few seconds.

“Listen to me-”

“No!” His voice cracks. “This isn’t about you. Not anymore. I get it, you blame yourself, good for you. That doesn’t change anything! Or did you miss this?” He gestures at his face. “No amount of self-flagellation is going to make him get out of my head!”

Antoine knows very little about the Joker. He’s read the Wikipedia article, and the news reports, and that had been enough. What he **has** read gave him nightmares.

So enough is enough. Batman wants to feel guilty, great. Shine on, you crazy diamond. But go shine somewhere else. From the sound of his breathing, the boss is about to have some sort of breakdown and it’s been a long night already.

He clicks the safety off.

“It doesn’t have to be lethal, boss.”

Jason doesn’t answer him.

“I’m tired,” he says to Batman. “And I don’t want to hear it. Just go. **Please.** ”

To Antoine’s shock (and skepticism, no way the fucker went far), Batman…vanishes. When he doesn’t come back and start beating the shit out of them, he lowers his gun, flicks the safety back on.*

“Huh,” Jason mumbles. “Didn’t think that’d actually work.”

He’s about to agree when the boss just **drops**. He manages to break his fall, a bit, but they both end up on the grimy bricks. Shit, shit, what the hell, everything was fine, now fucking Batman’s gonna come back and they’re **screwed** -

“What the hell?”

“I don’t know, man, I don’t fucking know-”

“Move.” Mark elbows them out of the way and crouches down. “Looks okay…I mean, little bruised, but…”

“Scarecrow? He was down there, Bat blasted the tank to Kingdom Come-”

“Or the Bat did somethin’ to ‘im earlier, mother **fucker** -”

“Honest to god, I think he’s just done,” Mark says quietly. “Come on, we gotta find a car or something.”

Trent picks him up, hesitant but still easily, and **Christ** he looks small, now, without his helmet and…he’s not moving. He’s **always** moving, even if it’s just to fiddle with a pocket knife. Antoine expects (hopes) he’ll wake up, demand to be set down, but he stays limp and unresponsive, one arm hanging towards the ground.

Honestly? He looks **dead** , or close to it, but…that might work in their favor.

“Anyone asks, we killed him and are bringin’ him back to Deathstroke,” he says, grabbing the red helmet from its spot by the dumpster. “Keep us from getting shot.”

“You hope.”

“Got a better excuse?”

“No.”

That’s what he thought.

* * *

They find a van (not one of theirs, Antoine thinks it was one of Penguin’s or somethin’) that works well enough. It feels flimsy and sounds like it might die if they hit a pothole, but it goes and there’s gas in it.

It’ll do.

The boss hasn’t woken up, but Mark swears there’s nothin’ wrong with him apart from bruising and what he thinks is a cracked rib. Which is clearly bullshit, because he’d be awake and bitching if there was nothin’ wrong with him. But whatever, whatever, when he seizes and dies Antoine can say I Fucking Told You So.

They’ve lain him across a row of seats with Trent’s raincoat over him as a sort-of blanket. Outside is empty and quiet-a few bodies here and there-with no sign of Batman. Good. Batman can go straight to Hell.

Jason stirs a bit and shit, Antoine didn’t mean it about the seizing and dying thing, c’mon…

No, he’s not seizing. Just working his way under the jacket a little more. False alarm, everything’s fine.

He’s waking up, as it happens-when Antoine twists around to make sure he’s not, like, foaming at the mouth, his eyes are open and he looks…well…

He looks like a confused kid. Antoine has the insane, suicidal urge to hug him. Thankfully, the urge passes.

“What the hell…?”

“Ninjas, sir.” It’s the best he can do. “Uh, rogue ones. Came outta nowhere.”

There’s a snort from the front-well, he knows who’s gettin’ thrown out to lighten the load-and Jason looks utterly unconvinced.

“Bullshit.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Jason shrugs and burrows under the jacket.

“Jus’ don’ do it again,” he mumbles, eyes already closed. “’Least make it convincin’.”

What? He’s not a storyteller. His job is literally to shoot at things.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway-he’s already asleep again, arms thrown over his face. Antoine waits another minute, just to be sure, before throwing a piece of gravel at the passenger’s seat.

“Like you had a better story.”

Trent snickers.

“Yeah. Batman.”

“Batman **is** a ninja, stupid.”

“No, Batman is Batman.”

That doesn’t even…whatever. What-the-fuck-ever. He’s a ninja, a ninja from Hell, maybe, but a ninja. But Antoine is going to be the better man here and shut up (and not wake the boss).

Said boss remains dead to the world for the next forty minutes, finally coming to when they stop for gas.

“Th’ fuck are we?”

Good question. Antoine has no idea.

“I think we’re out of Gotham, sir.”

He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t do anything apart from pluck at the coat and look blankly at the roof of the car.

“S’good,” he mumbles. Then, “No more ninjas?”

Jimmy snickers and Antoine punches him in the arm, earning a hiss and a, “I have a bruise, asshat!”

“I don’t care.” He twists around. “You okay back there, boss?”

The boss gets that confused-kid expression again and nods, once, before rolling over and burying his face in his arms.

“Next time we stop, wake me up an’-”

“Just go back to sleep, sir. We got this.”

He doesn’t get an answer, but that’s okay.

They keep driving in silence, rain pounding on the car, until the city lights fade for good.

THE END

*In-game, charging into a group of armed mooks is **suicide** -Fear Takedowns and Stealth are your friends. Bruce might be able to get one of them at this range, but six? When they’re all looking right at him? And are more than a little bit pissed off? Nope.


	112. The Golden Arches of Salvation (Militia Fic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of ‘Angels on the Sidelines’, kinda stolen from the (now infamous) Avengers post-credit scene. Written, like, six months later.

The fact that there’s very little to be found on the highway leading into and out of Gotham only reinforces Antoine’s convictions that nothing is supposed to get out of there. It’s America’s last desperate effort to keep the psychos contained-if they run out of gas or starve, they can’t set up shop in Metropolis.

The boss hasn’t woken up again, not even when they stopped and switched drivers. Hasn’t moved other than to curl into a ball. Which means Antoine’s…not forgotten about him, exactly, but he’s not paying him much mind, either.

This proves to be a mistake.

Frank’s saying something in the Dad-Voice and Antoine’s ignoring him when the otherwise quiet van turns into the Scream Machine.

He may or may not clip a ‘thirty miles to ~~Gotham~~ **HELL** (hitchhikers may be Arkham inmates)’ sign pulling over. It’s dark and raining, no one can prove anything.

“S’all right, you’re all right, you’re all right-quit looming, you idiots-come on, boss, wake up…”

Jason’s not curled up anymore. He’s stretched back out, hands scrabbling against the seats like he’s trying to grab hold of something.

“What the hell-”

“I don’t know-”

“Shut up and give him some space, Jesus-c’mon, boss, you’re okay, you gotta wake up-”

Space? How? They’re in a van!

Riley opens a door. Antoine resists the urge to close it. Nothing’s going to get in. They’re in the middle of nowhere. And it’s nighttime.

“F’he starts thrashing, he’s gonna upset those ribs, and I don’t have the equipment to deal with a punctured lung,” Mark warns. Frank flaps a hand at him and reaches over, gives Jason a hesitant shake. The screams stop as suddenly as they started and for a second or two Antoine’s convinced that he **died** or something, but no, no, he’s still breathing-ragged, uncomfortable-sounding gasps, yes, but he’s still breathing.

“Sir?”

Silence, barring the rain assaulting the van and the boss’s harsh panting. Antoine resolutely does not think about the fact that he’s heard screams like that twice: once, when he was a kid and his neighbor-friend got mauled by a dog, and this evening, from one’a the poor guys who got caught up in Crane’s Crazy-Juice.

He thinks about the brand, the Bat, and the clown. Remembers the horror stories one of the guys, a Gothamite to the bone, used to tell. Remembers the Power Points. Decides he doesn’t wanna go there until the sun’s up.

The panting finally evens out, but it’s another few minutes before the boss wakes up the rest of the way.

“’appened?”

Yeesh. He sounded bad before? He sounds worse now. Do they have water? They should stop for water bottles.

“Antoine hit a sign,” Jimmy, that traitor, says.

“You can’t prove shit.”

“Ten bucks says I get out and the van’s dented.”

“Bite me. I didn’t hit a sign, sir. I swerved, but I didn’t hit anything.”

The boss does not look convinced, but he doesn’t press, just sits up, rubbing at his neck with a shaking hand. Frank looks like he might say something, but thinks better of it and returns to his seat.

“Where are we?”

“Middle of nowhere. You, uh, don’t have any safehouses out this way, do you? Or know any seedy hotels that won’t ask questions?”

“Mm-mm.” He plucks at the coat that’s now pooled in his lap. “No hotels unt-til ya get back outta Jersey.”

Great.

Before anybody can say anything else, Mark clambers into the back and clicks on his penlight.

“ **Ow** -Jones, what the hell-”

“You always have a green tinge around your pupils, boss?”

“No. S’Crane’s gas, that’s all, it’ll wear off.”*

“Any other symptoms I should worry about?”

“M’fine. This isn’t my first run-in.”

Mark does not look happy. Well, he never looks like a little ray of sunshine, but he looks grumpier than normal. It’s probably because he’s out of gum for the first time in Antoine’s memory.

“You start feeling like you wanna claw your eyes out, say.” He tips Jason’s head back, light flashing over a row of small scars on his throat. “What’re these.”

“Nothing fatal. I’m **fine.** ”

Mark finally lets him go and they all pretend the boss doesn’t visibly deflate when he’s got his personal space back. Trent leans over and shuts the van door again, bumps his head against the roof ducking back inside. In the distance, Antoine thinks he sees the true symbol of the United States of America-the great golden arches of McDonald’s.

The others see them, too-Riley pokes his shoulder and signs, _I would maim a man for McNuggets._

Antoine does not want to be that man.

“Anyone hungry?” There’s a chorus of yeses and some of the tension drains out into the rain. “Boss? McD’s okay?”

The boss shrugs, scrubs his hands across his face and through his hair.

“Why the hell not.”

* * *

The McDonald’s is close enough to Gotham to absorb some of the creepiness.

Okay, a lot of the creepiness-this is, without a doubt, the McDonald’s of the Twilight Zone. The parking lot is riddled with gargantuan potholes, the arches are flickering demonically, and the Play Place is closed down-a closer look says one of the slides is broken halfway down, jagged plastic hanging ten off the floor like a mouth.

Come **on**. It’s been a long enough night **already**. If this is like, the Freddy Fazbear’s of McDonald’s, Antoine is blowing it up and fleeing, cackling, into the dark to live his life as a cryptid.

They go in, because the drive-through is very dark, and too late he thinks they probably look…suspicious.

The lone cashier doesn’t seem to notice or care. She doesn’t even look up from her phone when she tosses out a bored, “Welcome to McDonald’s.”

Perfect.

Inside is as bad as the outside. The booths are ripped, the tables are chipped, and the Ronald by the bathrooms looks like Pennywise’s cousin. That may or may not be blood in its mouth.

“There’s been a romaine recall,” Frank warns, finger swiping through his phone. “Nobody get salad.”

McDonald’s salads are gross, anyway. They’re always drowning in dressing and half-sogged out by the time you get them.

“Okay, who wants what?” Oh, good. Maybe he’s a little more awake, maybe it’s the light, whatever, but the boss sounds more like himself. Or. Y’know. As close as he can be without the voice mod.

“No coffee for you.”

“Excuse me, I-”

“Have been exposed to an unregulated and highly dangerous substance. No caffeine.”

The boss might be willing to face down Batman, but not Mark. The stare-off lasts about fifteen seconds before he looks away. It could have only ended one way, really.

The cashier only looks vaguely interested in them when they step closer to the counter. Well. Either she’s a great actress who’ll call the National Guard the second they’ve turned around, or she’s got more important things to do than worry about a group of questionable individuals.

Maybe something’ll go right tonight.

“Hey, we’re gonna need seven McFlurries, three Oreo-”

“-ying, we could paint it up like the Mystery Machine, call ourselves the Scooby gang-”

What.

Jason sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We are not going to be the Scooby gang,” he says tiredly. “Jesus…okay, yeah, sorry, three Oreos, two M&Ms, one Butterfingers, and one Reese’s.”

The girl looks from the boss to what Antoine is sure is a fire behind him, shrugs, and taps at the computer.

“And…one…Reese’s. Anything else?”

“Cyanide,” Jason mutters, then, a little louder, “Yeah. There’s kind of a lot-”

“We could still paint the van, though,” Jimmy’s saying. “Look at it. It looks like a pedo van now, we have to do **something** to it.”

“We just came from a Halloween party,” the boss explains. This is immediately followed by Trent’s snorting and hollering, “Yeah, we’re rent-a-strippers.”

The girl looks like she wants them all to die horribly. She doesn’t look convinced, either. Which. Yeah.

“Y’know what? Seven Happy Meals, three McNuggets, four cheeseburgers-”

Has the Ronald moved? It looks closer than it did. Or maybe it’s just the angle…no, no, it’s closer.

He jabs a finger at it, just so it knows he’s onto it, and tunes back in just as Jason says, “-and a small coffee.”

**“Boss.”**

“What?”

He nods in Mark’s direction.

“He’s gonna flip.”

“You’re gonna hold it, and you’ll give it to me when we leave.”

What? No! No! He is not joining in on this scheme to Get One Past Mark. He likes life!

…

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s a great idea. That’s it, thanks!”

“He’s gonna bust you,” Antoine insists, because it’s still his job to protect the boss from himself. “He’s gonna know, and I’m gonna be the one getting murdered for it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

They’re both gonna end up buried in one of the potholes outside, if the Ronald doesn’t eat them all first.

The others have taken over a couple of booths at the back. Somebody’s got out a deck of cards. Riley, from the looks of it, is winning. And probably cheating to do it.

What a world. Literally four hours ago, he was taking an elbow to the face courtesy of a man in a cape. Now? They’re getting McFlurries at the world’s creepiest McDonald’s. What even.

“What now, sir?”

“Hm?”

“You got a plan?”

The boss sighs, runs a hand through his hair and leans against the drinks station.

“Money’ll be in your accounts by the end of the night,” he says. “Your contracts are up, you can do what you like.”

Antoine resists the urge to facepalm. Considering he’s clearly no idiot, to have gotten them this far, the boss can be a goddamn **moron** sometimes.

“You’re still the boss, boss. You wanna head back to base, go somewhere else, whatever, we’re with you.”

The look he gets is confused as all hell, but they’re both saved from an awkward conversation by the girl bringing out the McFlurries.

“Food’ll be out in a few minutes,” she says.

McFlurryyyyyyy.

“-fucker, turn ‘em out, c’mon-don’t you take that tone of finger with me, I **saw** you slip one up your sleeve-”

Well, nobody’s dying, they’re fine. He turns his attention to the van. Sitting there, alone in the crappy parking lot, it really does look like a pedo van. Not even a **clean** ‘need a ride to the mall?’ pedo van, a grimy, found-in-the-ghetto, ‘want some candy, little child heh heh heh?’ pedo van.

It has to go, or they have to paint it. One of those-he sees you, Ronald, go back to the bathroom. Hide in a sewer like your cousin.

“Y’know, sir, it really does look like the Mystery Machine. Right shape ‘n all.”

“Not you, too.”

“I’m just saying that it does. To be fair.”

Jason shrugs and closes his eyes. Now, in the better lighting, he looks godawful, like he shouldn’t be standing up. Antoine catches a glimpse of himself in the window to the Play Place and finds that he doesn’t look much better. His nose is more swollen than he’d realized.

That elbow had really, really hurt.

“What took you out?”

“Huh?”

“Your face.”

“Oh.” Damn. “The, uh, the elbow of righteousness, sir.”

“Mm.”

“Happy Meals?”

Silence in the booths. Then, “Boss?”

“Act like children, get children’s meals.”

“…yes, sir.”

* * *

They eat everything else with minimal bickering, after ceremoniously dumping the Batman toy (Seriously. Really. WHY.) into the trash can. Mark so far hasn’t noticed or hasn’t cared about the contraband coffee in Antoine’s hands, and he’s really, really hoping it stays that way. The van grumbles and whines when he turns the key, but a good smack to the dash shuts it up. He’s grateful. Ronald is by the door inside. He feels a little bad for the employees, but y’know…they’re still alive. They’re fine.

Jason settles into his usual shotgun and at some point, the coffee vanishes from the middle cupholder. There. It’s out of his hands-literally-and if Mark pitches a fit, Antoine is throwing the boss under the bus and claiming he knew nothing about any of this.

The sun’s just starting to come up when Jimmy leans forward, fingers reaching for the radio, and stills.

“Is he asleep?”

Uh…

Yup. Out cold, looks like, with the seatbelt digging into his neck and everything.

“You wake him, you’re riding on the roof,” he says. “Don’t even test me.”

Jimmy shrugs and pulls back. There’s ominous rummaging noises and he pops back up a few minutes later with Trent’s rain coat, lays it over Jason like a barber’s smock. He doesn’t even stir.

“Nice.”

“I’m Batman.”

Antoine scowls and huddles over the wheel a little more, reminds himself that he **likes** everyone in this van. Even the dumb ones.

“Too soon.”

THE END

 

*Canonically, Dr. Crane’s toxin leaves a green tinge to the skin cells (see _Year One_ ).


	113. R (&B's P), Pt. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine’s quest for non-shitty coffee is shamelessly stolen from the…yeah, all right, I nabbed it from 1998’s Godzilla. He and Philippe would probably have some good bonding moments.
> 
> Fun fact: There’s a guy who works at my local Wal-Mart who sounds very much like the Arkhamverse’s Riddler. And sometimes he has to use the intercom-y’know, ‘Jan, call on line five’ or whatever. The sheer reflexive R-R-RAGE that hits me when that happens…I feel bad for him, because I live in a state of ‘I want to punch you’ and I know he did nothing to me, but…yeah.

They bring him back to base, because there’s nowhere else to take him, and then Mark collars Ryan, who’s halfway through nursing school, and kicks everyone else out.

The shower still works. The water pressure’s amazingly bad and it keeps going from potential third-degree burns to frostbite, but it washes the grime off. It’s been too long since he took a shower, a fact that only registers when the water goes to cold at the **worst** possible time and sends his balls trying to crawl back inside his body.

It’s been a long day. Well. Long almost two days, he thinks. But sometimes Gotham seems to run on its own time. Last year? October or not, no sun takes that long to come up.

He stumbles out of the demon shower and journeys to Dunkin Donuts. There’s no line, which means he only gets a few minutes to watch the news while the guy gets his order ready. The cops-and presumably Batman-have descended upon the apartment building. Gordon looks terrible. He needs a night off.

…

This is not French Roast. He’s not even sure this is any sort of recognizable roast. This is terrible. This is what he gets for going to a chain and not a local café, when will he learn…

Never mind.

His coworkers are heathens and don’t care that the coffee is sad. Antoine claims a jam-filled donut and settles down to wait. Martin inches over after a few minutes and huddles up against the wall a few feet away.

“What do we do?”

“Wait ‘n see, I guess,” he says, pretends the kid doesn’t scoot a little closer the second he looks back at his cup. He’s probably rattled. It wasn’t a fun ride back-the screaming and pleading had started after about ten minutes and hadn’t let up until Mark hit him with a field sedative when he started thrashing. “If you wanna head back to whatever life you were building-”

“No! No. No, no, I’m. Um. I’m good. Here.”

Whatever.

Two hours later, Martin’s fallen asleep with his head jammed against Antoine’s hip and his empty cup overturned by his fingers. Fifteen minutes after the snores start, Mark steps back out.

“Well?”

There’s no answer at first, just heavy boots scuffing across dirty tiles towards the now-cold coffee. He takes a long drink of it, seemingly only realizing it’s cold halfway through.

“We wait ‘n see,” he says quietly. “He’s asleep. Don’t all swarm him, for fuck’s sake.” He takes another drink of the cold coffee, doesn’t even bat an eye. “If one of you wants to get clothes that aren’t fuckin’ drilled through, that’d be great.”

He vanishes down the hall leading to the shower. Antoine dislodges Martin, wedges his jacket under his head, and goes after Mark.

He finds him not in the shower, but in what used to be a little cubby for the drone controllers to sit in while getting the Cobras through the place. There’s a busted-up folding chair in here, but not much else. Mark’s ignored it in favor of slumping down in the corner, head between his knees.

“What happened?”

The resulting laugh is bitter and angry. It’s not really a laugh at all.

“Some sick SOB took a branding iron to a sixteen-year-old kid,” he says at last. “For one.” Yeah. There’s. There’s really nothing he can say to that. He keeps his mouth shut in favor of crouching down to pick up a fallen pen. Mark sighs. “It’s not like I didn’t know,” he says carefully, nail rubbing at a patch of pink skin by his knuckles. “I mean. There’s a difference between scars you get on the job and. And t-. Inflicted ones. But I didn’t…I had no idea…”

 **How old he was** , hangs in the air before shattering on the tiles. Yeah. None of them did. They’d tossed some guesses around a little bit, settled, in the end, on late twenties. Antoine’ll be surprised if the boss can legally drink in America, though, and…and knowing what he does now, about Batman and Robin and that goddamn tape he showed them once (that had been bad but the kid was out of his misery, that’s what he’d said then)…

Yeah. There are no words.

“I’m gonna go clothes shopping, I guess. Want anything?”

“Tequila.”

“Anything but that.”

“Nah.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m gonna grab a shower and head back in, I guess. Send Ryan to a pharmacy.”

“I could go.”

“He needs the out, I need specifics.”

Fair.

* * *

The boss is still out by the time Antoine gets back. It’s dark out, now. Like, Batman-dark. He’s glad to get off the streets.

Twitter seems to be torn between believing the Red Hood is dead and insisting that he got the upper hand, killed Sionis, and vanished like he always does. A few people have left candles on their rooftops. Huh.

Frank’s on boss-duty so Mark can catch a nap-he’s dragged a couple of chairs together and looks incredibly uncomfortable, but he’s asleep all the same. The boss (because screw the Red Hood thing, THERE IS NO HOOD AND IT’S DUMB) is half-buried in blankets. Maybe it’s the lighting, maybe it’s the injuries, but he looks like a bruised eggplant.

“How is he?”

Frank shrugs.

“He woke up a little bit ago,” he says. “Mark doped him again because something spooked him.”

Medical wings-even half-abandoned, thrown-together ones-are creepy. This one is no exception. It used to be part of a Dillard’s before they took over the mall, and if you squint, you can still see some of the mannikins. They got rid of most of them, but one or two remain in the distance, missing limbs like Greek statues.

“Where’s Martin?”

“Jimmy put him in the barracks. Y’know, what’s left of ‘em.” Calloused fingers rub against a pinned-up pant leg. It takes Antoine a minute to spot the leg that fits there, propped up against a wall. “Got fat and lazy this past year,” Frank says ruefully. “Got too used to the beach, I guess.”

He knows that feeling. If he’s going to be honest, though, it hadn’t…he’s not glad to be here, what with the circumstances and all, but it’s nice to have something to **do** again. He’d been getting itchy. Bored.

“B…?”

They freeze. Frank recovers a little quicker, reaches over to ruffle his hair with a soft, “Shh.”

“S’r’y…”

All right, so maybe the bruised eggplant comparison was uncharitable. Frank grimaces but his voice is still soothing when he murmurs, “You’re okay, just go back to sleep.”

Antoine’s not sure he was awake to begin with. Whatever the case, he shuts up and squirms a little further under the blankets. Frank is a magician and he could make a fortune with that trick. He needs to see Antoine’s sister. As much as he loves his niblings, they…

Okay, yeah, the neighbors probably dream of the day they collectively get taken down with laryngitis.

“You good here?” he asks at last. “I’m gonna do a sweep unless you need something.”

“I’m good, go.”

He’s tempted, a little, to toss a coat or something over Mark, but the risk of waking him is high and it’s not worth the fallout. It’s safer to do a thorough circle of the room (those mannikins are a **risk** ; one of them could be Batman) before slipping out into the hallway.

Somebody’s organized a ‘block as many vents as possible’ initiative-the two he can see now have wood nailed across them to keep them from being kicked out easily, and Trent’s running a tripwire across a third.

“I’m taking no chances,” he says, and Antoine spots the quite frankly obscene amount of explosives that wire is rigged to trigger. Goddamn. This time last year, he’d call that overkill. Now? Trent is a wise man and they could all learn from him.

There’s not that many floor grates in here, but the old food court is riddled with them. Riley’s already there, unleashing floor flare after floor flare into them.* Once upon a time, those would have been an emergency exit. Now? Screw it, they’ll blast through a wall if things get that bad.

Hopefully things don’t get that bad. They deserve a break, for chrissakes.

* * *

The boss is out of it-full-on, ‘who are you where am I _please don’t hurt me_ ’ levels of out of it-the next few times he wakes up. It’s. Um.

Honestly, Antoine would have been happy never to receive this sort of information. They’ve all kidded, a bit, about unlocking the boss’s Level Twelve Tragic Backstory, but, uh…not like this. Not like this.

He comes back to himself, eventually, around two o’ clock on Friday morning. Antoine’s sulking in the hallway with a cheap cigarette and this swill Gotham calls French Roast (the filthy liars, they deserved to be held hostage), keeping an eye peeled for Bats, when he hears Mark going through his ‘return to consciousness’ exam.

“…any idea how **dumb** that was?”

Silence. Antoine stubs his cigarette out and goes back in.

“No?”

His voice is hoarse-Antoine’s a little surprised he can talk at all, to be honest. He’s still shaky and short of breath, but he’s lucid this time, he’s not mistaking any of them for the Joker.

(That had been awful and he never wants to experience that ever again.)

“Yup.” Mark bats his hands away from the bandages around his stomach. “Don’t. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Got.” He swallows, grimaces, and nearly chokes when Mark jabs a juice box against his lips. “Okay, **okay**. I got picked up. I think. Did I?”

“Mm-hm. Anything after that?”

“No.”

“Mm.” Mark tips his head up and clicks on his penlight. “Headache?”

“Yeah.”

“Bad?”

“’ve had worse.”

“Great.” The light goes away and the boss drops his head, blinking hard and rubbing gingerly at his eyes. “I swear to God, the minute those stitches come out, I am going to wad them up and stuff them down your throat! Would it have killed you to have sent up a smoke signal? Or **called**? You keep better tabs than a paranoid mother, I **know** you knew where we were-” Oh, damn. He is not getting involved in this. Is there popcorn in here anywhere? “-there is **no** excuse for handing yourself over to a psychopath! None! And we are **talking** about the goddamn bite marks, what did you do, give Godzilla a hug-”

“Go easy on him, Mark-wow, boss, no offense, but you look like death.” Frank pokes his head into the room and grimaces. “Well, maybe a little better than that. But not much.”

“Mm.” His fingers explore the bandages again before falling to his sides. “Sionis-”

“Taken care of. Kids are none the worse for wear and he’s, um…running that criminal empire in the sky.”

“Kids are okay?”

“Not a scratch.”

“Tha’s good.” He closes his eyes again-no. Not completely. Just mostly. “Tha’s good.”

Now that Mark’s shoved the blankets halfway down, he’s visibly tense and shivering. The tenseness goes down when Mark half-helps, half-manhandles him into a clean shirt…until he looks down and sees what it says.

“I Survived Gotham?” He gives Antoine a look that in better circumstances…might be scary. Maybe. To little children. “You did this to me.”

“It was that, or a crop top,” he says smoothly, and it’s not a complete lie. Those were the two choices…because he wasn’t willing to cross the street. “Sorry, boss.”

“You still can’t lie to save your life.”

Vicious lies.

He tries to look as innocent as possible. Jimmy, the asshole, laughs at him.

“You look like you bit a lemon.”

“Bite me.”

“That’s what your mom said.”

He hates everyone in this room. Whatever. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes, intending to go sulk outside again, and the boss makes grabby-hands. Mark smacks his fingers.

“No.”

“But-”

“Your insides aren’t on the outside thanks to thread and gauze. No smokes for you.”

The boss huffs and starts to lever himself upright. The resulting noise of rage is…uh…honestly, if Antoine’s going to be honest, it’s reminiscent of Poison Ivy’s big, vaguely sexual plant.

“If you rip those stitches, so help me, I will stitch your ungrateful ass to this bed. Don’t. Even. Test me.”

He’s on his own. Antoine will face down a lot of things. Killer plants? Fine. Batman? Bring it, fucker. A rabid, rampaging polar bear? Probably. The medic? Lose his number, please.

“M’stiff. I just wanna sit up-get **off** , hey-”

Mark huffs and props him against the wall.

“Five minutes. That’s what you get.”

It’s…easier…to look at him now. He still looks like crap, it’s not that, s’just…the tape. Or. The last minute or so of the tape. He’d been cleaned up for that, but…it’s easier to pretend there’s no relation now that he’s sitting up. Easier to look him in the eye and keep up the charade that they don’t know **shit** , sir, and that’s the honest truth, hand-to-bible.

Five minutes is what Mark said, but the boss is out cold in less than three. Which is probably for the best, because Antoine gets a news update right around then about a swarm of bats downtown.

Well. That can’t be good.

 

 

*I don’t know if they make the vent too hot or if they melt it shut, but once the grate is torched, you’re not going back in, so…


	114. R(&B's P), Pt. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I wanted this out earlier, but we’ve had a wet, ugly week and my joints spent a couple of days in a row chiming, ‘bitch, you ain’t doing SHIT today!’ Whatever. Here. TAKE IT.

Antoine makes the mistake of getting complacent when the swarm of bats doesn’t come crashing through the walls. In his defense, so does everyone else. The vents are blocked off. The grates are toast. The boss’s helmet is long gone and he’s clearly here, so good luck with that voice-mimicking crap, buddy. Those doors are staying **shut.** So suck it.

It’s been another hour. Mark woke the boss back up to shove Jell-O at him. Neither party is too happy about this.

“Do you know what this **is**?”

“Gee, boss, if you’d done the smart thing and called for backup, you might not have taken a power drill to the stomach, and I wouldn’t have to make you eat this instead of real food. Shame.”

“It didn’t even go in that deep.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Mark settles back onto his chair-bed-thing, smugness rolling off him in waves. “Nobody ever died from lime Jell-O.”

The boss prods the wiggly cube with an expression that clearly states he doesn’t believe that. Then he looks up, spots Antoine, and-no. No, no.

“Drouot.”

“Sir?”

“Google something-”

“Don’t you dare,” Mark barks. Oh, great. Uh…of the two of them, Mark’s capable if inflicting bodily harm. But the boss holds a grudge.

Is it so bad to hope for like, a freak asteroid?

“The Wi-Fi’s really bad, sir.” There. That might get him out of this. “Keeps kicking me off and everything.”

“Bullshit.” Worth a try. “Look up Jell-O fatalities.”

He regrets popping in to see if anybody needed anything. All the same, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, seriously considers dropping it and hoping it breaks, and wakes it up. To his utter shock and dismay, one of Gotham’s (of course Gotham…whyyyyyyy) resident kooks decided to poison a batch of Jell-O. Three people died.

“It was grape, if that helps,” he says sadly. Mark makes a low, angry noise.

“I don’t care. You’re taking the risk.”

The boss grimaces. If Antoine thought he was outright suicidal, he’d say he was weighing making a break for it. Maybe he is, but he must come to the conclusion that it’s a terrible idea.

“If I start frothing at the mouth-”

Mark points to the crate by his chairs.

“There’s charcoal in here. You’ll be fine.”

Ouch. Well, uh, there’s nothing he can do here. He’s just gonna…go…maybe Google knows where he can find decent coffee in this town.

That’s the plan. The reality is that the door flies open and smacks him in the ass. Martin trips in immediately after, apologizing profusely. The boss somehow manages to choke on his Jell-O.

“Shit, sir, I’m so-so-so sorry, s’just-”

Antoine wonders if he pissed off a Sanderson sister at some point. Or maybe his own sister hit on something during her teenaged witchcraft phase. Shit, this is punishment for framing her for the Great Soda Spill of ’98.

The boss recovers from his near death-by-Jell-O experience, eyebrows furrowed, and wheezes, “You’re still not eighteen.”

“He was permitted to be the driver, sir,” Antoine says, because Jimmy’s not here to argue and he wants to save himself while he still can.

“Rogers?”

“Yessir.”

Martin’s shifting a little, fingers jerking against his thighs, and he takes pity on the kid.

“What is it.”

“Man down.”

WHAT? HOW? Wait, wait, maybe outside. Maybe some dumbass got arrested. Yes. Surely that’s it. **Surely.**

“Where?”

“Supply closet. We, uh,” Martin grimaces, looks from him to the boss to the floor. “Wemissedagrate.”

Who the **fuck** puts grates in a supply closet? What the hell? Why? Y’know what, no. Just no. He is suing whoever designed this building to be this unsecurable disaster site.

“Spread out and find him,” he snaps. “No one goes alone. Get people checking more closets-no way is that the only grate-”

“-down. **Now,** ” Mark snarls. “If I have to sedate you, there’ll be Hell to pay when it wears off.”

“I’m fine-”

“Boss, we can handle this,” Antoine says, giving Martin a little shove towards the door. “You don’t look so good-”

“I’m **fine**.” Uh-huh, that’s a **healthy** green color, okay. Glad they’ve cleared that up. “And you,” he continues, jabbing a shaky finger at Martin, “I want you to not engage, is that clear? You so much as think you see a cape, you retreat. That’s an **order**.”

“Yessir.”

Oh, but when **he** says it, there’s argument and protesting. Pick a lane, a-holes: did the boss leave him in charge or not? You can’t just latch onto that when it’s convenient for you!

Martin, the little traitor, books it without another word. The boss finally lets Mark push him back down, breathing hard through his nose.

“M’fine,” he says again, but his voice is weak and he’s managed to make himself look worse in the past five minutes. And his right hand, the one in a brace, is twitching a little. “Just-”

“No. That knee will drop you like a hot potato-which you will deserve for putting weight on it. Here you are and here you stay unless the building is literally on fire.”

Somewhere in the building, a smoke alarm goes off. Thanks, Batman. Really. You’re so helpful.

“I’m gonna go with Martin,” he says. Mark flaps a hand at him and he books it before the boss can, like, order him to take him along for some reason. Maybe they should’ve gotten a golf cart for down here…

The acoustics of this place mean he can hear…commotion…elsewhere. Bad commotion. It goes silent when he’s halfway down the hall and he wills himself to stay calm. It’s well-lit in here. **These** vents are shut and the grates are ruined. Everything is fine.

But there’s no sign of Martin, which is…odd. And bad. Goddammit, where is the kid? He couldn’t have gotten that far!

Call it lingering paranoia or good training, but he feels the urge to look up. And so he does.

Martin is there. He’s, uh…he looks unharmed, actually. He’s trussed up like a mummy and there’s a gag in his mouth, but he’s squirming a little.

He’s tempted to leave him there, for his own safety, but he’s looking a little red in the face.

“Stay still, kid-”

**Creak.**

What was that?

The walls in this place all look horrifically unstable. The boss’s speeding through the foundations in a giant tunnel borer probably didn’t do them any favors, but they’ve always looked sketchy. And it’s that, and only that, that has him taking several large steps backwards-just as **this** wall blows wide open.

The chunks miss him by inches. The black shadow that comes hurtling out after them does not. Antoine gets a shot off-clips the fucker’s cape, he thinks-before his rifle’s ripped out of his hands, tossed to the side with a noticeable bend in it, and then he’s on the ground.

He’s a nervous blabberer. He’ll cop to that, and he’ll blame it for staring at the pointy nose and the stabby-looking ears and saying faintly, “You killed my coffee pot.”

**“Where is the Red Hood.”**

“Fuck off,” he spits, kinda hopes he gets knocked out rather than strung up there with Martin.

It’s looking like he’ll get his wish, judging by the sudden tightening of the hand on his shirt, but then the Bat’s straight-up thrown off him and into the pile of debris. He’s back on his feet in a heartbeat.

It’s been a year since Antoine has last laid eyes on the Batman, and even then, he didn’t…really get a good look. It’s hard, okay, when the guy’s shooting up from a vent and elbowing you into unconsciousness.

But he can see him now, now that there’s a few feet between them. He’s, uh, big. Big-big. Kinda scary. Why he’s got a whole hospital’s worth of people who piss him off on purpose is one of Life’s Great Mysteries.

Batman might be big and scary, but Trent’s bigger and arguably scarier. And, thankfully, in the middle of them, rolling his shoulders and rumbling, “Ready for a rematch, Batman?”

He didn’t come alone. Granted, there’s not that many people (Antoine will bet there’s a lotta headaches in this building), but there’s maybe ten, twelve. Enough, maybe. They’re looking right at him, there’s nowhere for him to go.

…

They’re screwed, but maybe they can at least cause **some** damage before they get taken out-

“What the hell is going on?”

Oh, dear.

The boss has somehow gotten Mark to let him ride in one of the crappy wheelchairs from Wal-Greens, the ones they got for **just in case**. He looks like literal death warmed over, now, and Mark’s expression promises pain and suffering to the next person to breathe too loudly.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and his voice is only shaking a little bit, at least. “Really, B? Now- **fuck-** ”

He must move wrong, because he half-curls forward, hand fisted against his thigh and breath suddenly catching. He doesn’t, like, start gushing blood or anything, but it’s impossible to ignore the low whines in the back of his throat, like a hurt dog.

Batman loosens up, shoulders dropping and head moving a few degrees in a blatant cataloging of injuries. Whatever. If you’d gotten up out of your Bat-chair, you’d know things, wouldn’t you?

Trent moves between the Bat and the boss and snarls, “You want him, you go through us.”

Batman looks fully prepared to do exactly that. Mark mutters something about being surrounded by morons who drank nail polish as children and shoves at Trent until he takes a step to the left.

“If you,” He points at Batman. “cause complications,” Angry jazz-hands at the boss. “I swear to God, I will cut off your arm and beat you with it while blaring the most annoying pop songs I can find.”

The boss makes a noise that might be a laugh. Or a sign of more pain. Or both. Probably both.

“Stand down,” he murmurs, and it’s an effort to hear him. “S’all right. M’all right.”

“Sir-”

 **“Stand. Down.”** Trent scowls but moves aside a fraction of an inch. Batman doesn’t come any closer, but he doesn’t look happy. Maybe he never looks happy. Who knows. “What do you want.”

“We need to talk.”

“So talk.” He sinks back down with a low groan. “But maybe I can lie down first, huh?”

“Alone.”

There’s a burst of noise that echoes through the hall. Trent gains three feet of height and one ton of ‘I will fuck you up’ and steps closer.

“I **said-** ”

“Enough.” They shut up, but Trent doesn’t shrink and he doesn’t move. “S’all right. He’s not gonna. Gonna hurt me.”

Antoine suspects otherwise. He was certainly willing to throw down last year. HE BLEW UP THE CLOUDBURST LIKE A GODDAMN DUMBASS.

“Sir.”

Nobody moves. It’s just starting to become awkward when the boss huffs and says, “M’not gonna die, you can go.”

“You sure, boss? ‘Cause, uh, we can probably take him now, he’s right there.”

The look he gets is somehow both scathing and deeply pitying.

“No you can’t.”

…

Yeah. Yeah, probably not. But they can try! They might even hit him. There’s no gargoyles in here, after all.

Eh, he’ll probably just summon the car. Antoine hates that goddamn car.

“If you say so, sir.”

“I’ll be fine.” Yeah, sure. “Go.”

“If you need us-”

“I know, I know. God…you never used to be this bad.”

“You never took a power drill to the stomach,” Mark snaps. “And we still have to talk about the goddamn bite marks. What did you do, take up alligator wrestling?”

Batman, of all people, is the one who answers with a dry, “Robotic tyrannosaurus.”

Mark’s head snaps over so fast, Antoine’s amazed he doesn’t break his neck. The boss grimaces and may or may not shrink back as far as the chair will let him. Idiot. How the hell is he still alive, huh? Maybe he’s got resurrection powers.

“Thanks a lot.”

The answering noise might be a laugh. It sounds like one…sort of. If one feels imaginative.

It is the scariest noise Antoine has ever heard in his entire life.

“I don’t like it.” Frank. He’s never heard him sound this mad. “What are you gonna do, huh? This is your goddamn fault for thinking, ‘oh, hey, dressing my kid up as a stoplight and telling him to punch serial killers is a great parenting move!’”

“Clyde…” the boss says quietly, but Frank ignores him completely in favor of invading Batman’s personal space.

“Lemme tell you something, there’s well-meaning bad choices and how-is-someone-that-stupid choices, and there’s that one! How the hell did no one call CPS on your sorry-”

Batman moves as though he’s going to, like, put Frank through a wall or something. The boss sighs and raises his voice.

“Enough,” he says again. “He’s not going to hurt me.” He pauses, tilts his head to the side. “Are you?”

 **“No.”** And all right. Whatever minefield their personal history might be, Antoine believes the guy. He’s not here, at least right this minute, to drag the boss to the GCPD. Doesn’t mean they have to be happy about this, though. “You need to be in a hospital.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Yes it is,” Mark says shortly. “It is exactly as bad as it looks. No thanks to you. Where the hell were you?”

Batman ignores him, but his jaw’s twitching all the same.

“Hood-”

“I’m not going to a damn hospital,” He straightens up, as much as he can, anyway. “I’ve had worse and we both know it. You wanna talk, fine, come on. I’m going back to bed.” Trent doesn’t look too thrilled about it, but he lets Batman pass without a word. The boss melts back in the chair and closes his eyes, clearly trying to breathe on a count. “Twenty minutes,” he says. “If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, initiate plan Komodo.”

“Yessir.”

And it will be twenty minutes, to the **second** -Jimmy’s got his phone out and Antoine can just make out the stopwatch app being opened. They’ve just returned to Medical when Riley emerges and Antoine is stricken with two very important questions. One: where has he been? Two: who is that?

‘That’ is blue and black. A few seconds of brain-wracking finally comes up with Nightwing.* Great. Great! Another one. How many are there, anyway? Is, like, a ninja-girl gonna come flying in here from who-knows-where? Is Robin here somewhere? (Where the hell **is** Robin, anyway?)

“Really?” He goes to pick up his rifle. It’s a lost cause. “Where’d you get in?”

Nightwing grins. It’s a genuinely nice grin and honestly, apart from the fact that Riley’s zip-tied his hands and jammed his gun into his spine, he looks happy to be here.

“Trade secret.”

What deity did he enrage, huh. Which one.

“I want two of you stationed outside of Medical,” he says tiredly. “You hear anything funny, kick the door in and open fire. Jimmy, try to…get him down.” He points at Martin, who looks pleased to be remembered. And also like he might puke, so. “The rest of you, take Nightwing to a containment cell.”

“That’s it? No threats to carve up my pretty face?”

“I don’t even care anymore,” he admits, because fuck it, it’s true. “Just…we’ll deal with this later.”

“Aw, but it’s not a hostage situation unless people threaten my looks!” Another grin, teasing and borderline flirtatious. “I mean, for a while it was the clipped wings joke, but…”

Say what you will about Batman, but at least he’s quiet.

He pinches his nose and turns away to hunt up another rifle and also to hide his exasperation. He’s beginning to see where the boss gets that mouth from.

**Thanks, man. Thanks so much.**

 

 

 

*As fond as I am of Dick (I heard it as soon as I said it, just don’t), uh…he got taken down by Penguin. Not even, like, heavily-armed-badass-Penguin, just…just Oz. With Batman RIGHT THERE. :( Honestly, it’s for the best that that was offscreen, it likely would have been unintentionally hilarious.


	115. R(&B's P), Pt. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Alice in Chains’ ‘No Excuses’, AKA the Bromance Song. ALMOST DONE. There's an epilogue and then there is no more. HAHAHAHA! FREEEEEEEEE!

Bruce tucks Jason back into bed with the same tenderness he used to have, back before…well. Before.

And Jason…he almost wishes he’d let Jones give him the good drugs, because then he’d have something to blame for the whirlwind of feelings in his chest. Relief, because Bruce is all right. Anger, because **where the hell was he was he just going to leave me to die again WHY IS HE HERE?** A heaping teaspoon of trepidation. God knows they never got to talk things out.

Everything’s tempered down with exhaustion and pain, now. Ibuprofen doesn’t do a whole lot as it is, not for stuff like this. His abdomen hurts-sitting up like that did him **no** favors-and his knee is trembling from being moved after…how long has it been, anyway?...of being still and comfy. His fingers are jerking, too, and if he thinks about it, he thinks he can feel electricity.

His body can certainly feel the aftershocks of it, anyway.

Bruce pushes the cowl back. He doesn’t actually look that different, close up. No symbol on his chest, sure, and the armor’s new, angrier, somehow. But he’s still recognizably the Batman.

“What’s plan Komodo?” he asks, and Jason smiles, regrets it immediately because **ow.**

“They won’t do it unless they don’t hear from me in twenty,” he says, and sure, that’s a bit of a dick move, but too bad. He’s still angry. Maybe not ‘mount Bruce’s head on the wall’ angry, but still. “So you’d better make sure that they do.”

He gets narrowed eyes and a tense jaw, and for a couple of seconds he wonders if Bruce really will hurt him. Surely not, but…

“I don’t like them being back here. They belong in prison.”

“I didn’t call them,” he points out. “But seeing as Sionis would have killed me otherwise-”

“I had a plan.”

“Fuck your plan.” He’d like to sit up again; being trapped on his back is bringing back memories of Joker and a branding iron. “The only reason I was still alive when they got down there was because something happened to the livestream. He had a hacksaw ready and waiting to start dismembering me **alive** and **on screen** , Bruce. Not the best time for your last-second-rescue crap.”

Tellingly, Bruce says nothing. Or maybe not so tellingly: it used to be like pulling teeth to get words out of the man some days. Maybe it still is. He does smooth the blankets down, though, and help Jason take a drink. Not that he needs the help, but…

“There was.” He swallows, suddenly worn out and overly upset. “There was a boy. With me. The fucker-”

“I saw him, Jay,” Bruce says gently. “Gordon is taking care of him.”

Okay. Okay. That’s…s’just…no one deserves to be left down in the dark, even if they’re dead, and-

“Breathe.”

Fuck off, Bruce, he **is**. S’just. Um. Maybe not as steady as it could be.

He tries not to flinch when Bruce reaches over, fingers trembling, and pats the top of his head. He’s tired. He’s as confused as Bruce as to what the hell they’re all doing here, but he’s too tired to care and honestly, he’s pretty sure the city’s not burning to the ground, so it doesn’t matter.

“You should at least see Alfred,” Bruce says after a few minutes of awkward head-petting. And Jason…

Part of him is desperate to say **yes.** But the rest of him, the sensible bit that knows it’s his own damn fault that things…kinda suck now,

**You can never go home again.**

can’t. He can’t face him, knowing that he won’t even get crippling disappointment, oh, no, he’ll get a wave of unearned forgiveness and he can’t **take** that right now. Maybe not ever.

He shakes his head, lips pressed together because if he tries to talk he’s going to start crying. Bruce sighs.

“Jason…”

“I can’t, B.” And dammit, there’s the tears, he fucking called it! “M’sorry. Tell Alfie m’sorry.”

Bruce doesn’t press. Jason’s not sure what to feel about that, either.

Fortunately, the handful of tears don’t turn into anything else. He’s grateful-breathing too deeply hurts like a mother as it is.

“Why’re you here?” he finally asks, and the hand on his head tenses.

“I wasn’t sure what they wanted with you.” Huh? “Your last known contact with them…did not go as planned.”

Heh. No shit.

“Don’t think they’d.” He swallows; Bruce gives him another sip of water. “Rescue a bunch’a kids just to finish what Sionis started.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t sure.”

“I thought Deathstroke got to them,” he admits. “Most of the guys here are…were…my higher-ups. They’d been with me the longest.”

“I thought I got those.” And Bruce sounds so **offended** that Jason has to laugh. It hurts, it really hurts, but…but goddamn, Bruce, way to be a Sad Drama Queen.

“I didn’t send my crack team out in APCs, B,” he says. “I’m not that stupid. I might be the family fuck-up, but I knew what I was doing.”

“You’re not the family fuck-up, Jason.” Yeah…no matter how mad he is at Bruce, him swearing will never not be funny. He’s so awkward about it. Apparently Alfred made bank when he was sixteen and he got out of the habit and gained a healthy fear of…the Bowl. “I never meant to-”

“Don’t.” He pulls his head away. They’re not having this discussion, and that’s final. “Might wanna go tell them I didn’t die on your watch. Or at least open the door so I can.”

Bruce sighs, and for a couple’a seconds Jason thinks he won’t. But then he pulls the cowl back down, gets up and yanks the door open. Jason’s not surprised to find a handful of these idiots (good-hearted idiots, he guesses, but still…who in their right mind comes **back** to Gotham for any reason?) camped out in the hall.

“Everything’s fine,” he informs them, because even if Bruce tries to reassure them, he’ll be bad at it and the last thing he wants or needs is to deal with **that** fallout. “Status report.”

Drouot’s half-shoved into the room. He has the expression that he gets when he wants to either spontaneously sprout Einstein Hair and start cackling or fling open a door, any door, and scream into the void. Great. What now. What. Now.

“We have a guest,” he says. Of course they do. Roman’s crew? Has he pissed off anybody else-SHIT. PENGUIN. He probably found about the statue, crap-crap-crap. “Nightwing’s here.”

…

…

Penguin, where are you?

Bruce does that looming thing where he manages to look ginormous and awful and grinds out, **“What did you do to him.”**

Good question. He didn’t hear gunfire, so Dick’s…probably fine. Or at least, not dead.

Drouot visibly steels himself for pain and suffering, but his voice doesn’t shake when he says, “Containment cell. He’s fine. For the moment.”

“Go get him,” he says, before Bruce freaks out and rushes off to rescue the Golden Boy. Because he will. He always does. “I know he’s annoying, but try not break him.”

Drouot vanishes like he was never there and Bruce turns around, scowling.

**“Jason.”**

“What?” Oh, **now** he’s gonna lecture. Of course he is. “I’ve been **drilled into** , I’m not in the mood for a goddamn family reunion.”

He wants to go back to sleep. He didn’t have to deal with this when he was asleep. And things hurt less.

That, and he’s had his fill of Bruce for the next year. And he does **not** want to deal with Dick. They’ve spoken twice, since…since. Both times ended in shouting, punches, and, once, a trip through a nearby skylight.

Fun times.

Bruce is still radiating disproval. Whatever. Like that’s anything new.

“If he hugs me, it’s his own fault when he gets shot.”

“If he fucks up my stitches, he’ll replace them with his intestines,” Jones grumbles, and **wow** , Jason did not hear him come in. This is all Bruce’s fault. “Visiting hours are about over.”

He’s a little skeptical about how effective they’ll be, getting rid of a Bat infestation, but he sincerely appreciates the sentiment.

Bruce doesn’t look happy. A second later, though, his mouth gets that shape that Jason has always associated with him thinking, ‘my children are out of control’. He’s sure it’s not a coincidence that Dick’s voice reaches them right around the same time.

“-some of the weeds are a little more aggressive, but by and large they’re not **that** bad-”

Does he ever shut up? Screw Bruce’s rescue-Joker would’ve drop-kicked him out of Arkham within twenty minutes and screamed, “DON’T COME BACK!”*

He’s unharmed, anyhow, when a shell-shocked-looking Drouot finally shows him the door. Ages rises up behind him like an awakened statue from Indiana Jones, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

“Five minutes,” Jones says, already halfway out. “And stay down.”

He doesn’t want to sit up as it is.

Once the door closes again, Dick blows past Bruce to take the chair.

“Do not hug me-mmph!”

There’s suddenly arms around his head. He can’t even hit the asshole, because of the bad angle. Hell, he can’t even flail his way free.

Bruce-for once-comes to his rescue with a low, “Dick.”

Dick pulls back, face scrunched, and says, “You look awful.”

No, really? And here he was, thinking he’d knock the jerk out of the running for _Gotham Gazette’s_ ‘Handsomest Bachelor’. What a blow to his ego. Truly. He is wounded.

“Yup. Now go away.”

He gets an eye-roll for his troubles. Whatever. Family time’s over, he wants to go back to sleep.

“You okay?”

Ask a stupid question…

“It’s only a matter of time,” he says mournfully. “Tell…Alfred…I’m sorry for sticking up for you…when you burned down the kitchen.”

“Screw you.”

Will he go to Hell for this? Yeah. Does he care? Nah. Besides, with that kind of opening…it’s like the universe is apologizing for the last several years.

“Zero-ten, would not recommend.”

Bruce coughs and turns around. Dick looks torn between being horrified and pummeling him to a bloody pulp.

“He’s fine.” Well, duh, it’s not like he stitched himself up. Jones is a professional. Scary, yes, but there is a reason Jason sought him out. That sterling record didn’t just appear out of nowhere. “Is the car nearby?”

“I’m not going with you.”

“Jay-”

“No.” What Jones doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Getting himself upright one-handed is hard, but he manages. “Do you want it in Spanish? _No._ ”

“You have to.” Screw that, he’s an adult. Y’know. Technically. “You’re a mess, Jay, at least let Alfred look at you-”

“Jones is a qualified medic. Little scary, but qualified. I’ll be fine.”

Dick gestures to their surroundings.

“In an abandoned shopping mall? Come on. I know you going to a hospital is too much, but at least-Leslie’s still around, she’d see you-”

“I’m a little concussed, not incompetent,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “I can make my own decisions.”

“Why do you always have to be stubborn-”

“Why do you have to be such a control freak-”

“Two-Face is robbing a bank,” Bruce says suddenly, and he knows it’s terrible, but thank you, Harvey Dent. May your face stay ever moisturized and your eye drops never run out.

“Go, I’ll stay here-” Dick starts, and oh, no. This is a Very Serious Thing, he can just tell.

“Go save Gotham, Dickhead.” There. That’s as nice as he’s willing to be. He gives him a half-hearted shove. “I wanna go back to sleep, anyway.”

Neither of them look happy. Finally Bruce, to the shock of none, moves, flinging the door open and vanishing to…wherever he came in. Maybe he stashed a portal gun somewhere. Dick lingers another few seconds. Jason wonders if, like, shooting at him but purposefully missing is really so terrible…no, he can’t, there’s no weapons near him. There’s not even a scalpel.

“Gotham’s not gonna save itself,” he says, and gets a hair-ruffle (ow, bruise-daaaang, that’s actually a **lump** , c’mon, Roman!). “Stoppit.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Bruce isn’t nearby. He could, feasibly, order his men to kill Dick and dump his body in the river. He won’t, because Alfred wouldn’t like it, but he could.

“Out,” Jones snaps from the doorway. “Now. Visiting hours are over.”

Dick bristles and Jason sighs.

“M’tired. B needs you and I don’t. Go.”

“But-”

“Trent!” Ages pokes his head in. Jones crosses his arms. “Count of three, kid. One-”

“We’ll be back.” Wow, so threatening. He is an invalid, he doesn’t deserve the threat of a lingering Relative Visit hanging over him. “If you need us-”

Jason pulls his pillow over his face. He regrets it, a little, because he’s definitely got a broken nose and he wouldn’t be surprised to hear a squishing noise if he poked…pretty much anything, but it must get the message across, because Dick’s gone when he risks moving it.

“You okay, boss?”

He nods.

“Find out how they got in here and make sure they can’t do it again.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“Do a sweep for bugs.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“That includes yourselves-”

“Boss,” Clyde says gently, “we’ve got it. Get some rest, huh?”

Jones is suddenly a lot closer than Jason remembers him to be. He thinks this might be suspicious, but honestly, he doesn’t have it in him to care. Or to wonder if he was this tired earlier.

Doesn’t matter. He’s just gonna. Gonna close his eyes for a few minutes an’ then make sure they check the damn closets.

Few minutes.

All the minutes.

* * *

Antoine is settled into what used to be an upper-level display area, World’s Saddest French Roast in one hand and a cigarette in the other, when the boss scares the crap out of him by just **appearing**.

“How-never mind. Never mind.”

The boss (Jason, he guesses, but that’s too weird, it’s been too long of not having a name) points to the wheelchair below and holds up a grappling gun. Really. Really.

Mark is going to kill him. And then he’s probably going to come for Antoine for not, like, immediately shoving him back into the chair or calling for backup.

“That can’t be healthy, boss,” he says tiredly. He gets a shrug in response. “Mark’s gonna be pissed.”

“He’s asleep, he won’t know unless you tell him.”

He’s gonna know anyway…whatever.

He sets the pack of cigarettes on the ground and pretends not to notice when the boss shakes one out and lights it. Gotta have some sort of plausible deniability here. He likes life, thank you very much.

They sit in silence after that. Somewhere above them, there’s a near-accident-Antoine hears the shrieking of brakes and a screaming match starts. And people willingly live here. What even.

“You okay, boss?”

“Mm-hm. Jus’ tired.” He runs a finger across a line of stitches on his arm. “What were you all doing here, anyway?”

“Saving your ass.”

The boss blinks a few times, looking like he’s been smacked upside the head with a dead fish. What? Why is this such a surprise? He’d have done it for them. He **has** done it for them. Jeeze.

This is Batman’s fault. Somehow.

“You came back to Gotham for that?”

“Soon as we could, yeah.” He takes another much-needed drag and watches the smoke drift away. “Why?”

For a minute, he doesn’t think he’s gonna get an answer. But then the boss mumbles, nearly inaudibly, “S’been a while, s’all.” Then, a little louder, “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“Penguin.”

**“Penguin?”**

“Something about Sionis murdering a penguin statue.”

The boss laughs at that one and promptly gasps, arm wrapping around his stomach.

“Bad life choices…wow…that was me, but he doesn’t need to know that.” What? Never mind… “Cobblepot’s always held a grudge. Surprised he didn’t tell you to get bent.”

“Trent can be, uh, convincing.”

“He threw him into the bar, huh.”

“Yeah.” He gnaws on his lower lip, eyes glued to a boarded-over vent across from them. “What now, sir?”

“Hm?”

“What do you wanna do? Stay here, leave town? I think you’re kinda stuck with us, so…”

Silence for a few minutes. Then, “Anything that means I don’t have to deal with more Bats for the next little while.”

“Santa Prisca’s nice this time of year.”

The boss doesn’t answer. A little while later, he ends up slumped against Antoine’s shoulder, eyes closed. Hesitant poking confirms that he’s fallen asleep. Further, firmer poking only makes him grumble and make himself heavier. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, but he also looks like he’s there for the long haul.

Great. He’s gonna be trapped here until the end of time. Somebody’s gonna look up in, like, thirty years and find him as a skeleton.

He lights another cigarette, spots **some** kinda flower growing out of the wall, and pulls it up by the roots. None of that. No plants, not here. The flowers in Nice? Harmless. Friendly. Friggin’ Disney-worthy. But Gotham plants…unless they’re plastic, he wants no part of them.

For safety’s sake, he shreds the flower and burns the remains. There. All better. Screw you and your scary plant stories, Nightwing. May you suffer hay fever as punishment.

Or better yet, he thinks after a few minutes, laryngitis. At least Batman’s quiet. Scary, yeah, but quiet. Nightwing? He was probably the kid who got yelled at for talking in class.

If he’s going to be honest with himself, now that the immediate danger of being permanently maimed has passed, he’s annoyed. Like, actively irritated. Where the hell where they, huh? Things should never have gotten to this point. You don’t get to be all ‘WE’RE HERE TO SAVE THE CITY’ and then only pop up when the current crisis is over.

There’s a reason, he thinks, it was so easy to get people to sign up to take down Batman. Sure, there was a lot of people who were in it for the money, but there were others, a lot of others, who had been screwed by the system, had slipped through the cracks, had been overlooked and forgotten by everything the guy stands for. That tape had just sealed it, and it may not be very nice, but Antoine still thinks that at least some part of the Bat is doing this for the thrill.

 _“He’s only out to save the people he thinks are worth the effort,”_ the boss had said, before hitting play. It doesn’t look like he’s wrong. Considering the Bat had come busting in here, it hadn’t taken much to draw him back out-a robbery, not even a hostage situation.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.

The boss shifts a bit in his sleep and Antoine sighs, gives him another poke.

“Boss? Maybe you should be lying down.”

No dice. He resigns himself to being murdered by the medic, fishes his phone out of his pocket, and texts Trent.

**I’m stuck. Upper-level mannikin display. Come here.**

Trent, the asshole, does not reply. He also takes his sweet time showing up, and when he does, he’s still chewing a fry. Antoine hopes he chokes on that fry.

“Sorry, there was food.”

Clearly. Jerk.

“I could have been trapped under debris.”

“Eh.” He picks the boss up and feeling rushes back into Antoine’s arm. Ow. Pins and needles, pins and needles. “Mark’s gonna be mad.”

“That’s what I said.”

They make their way down. Truthfully, this isn’t that far from Medical, only a few stores. Store-sections. SPACES. Mark’s still out, propped in his chairs with his chin on his chest. Frank’s here, too, asleep in the chair near the bed.

“What now?” Trent asks, once they’re back out of the room and heading towards the kitchen.

“Santa Prisca’s nice this time of year.”

“Hm.” The bump to the shoulder nearly takes him off his feet. He thinks it bruises. “Don’t forget to put on sunscreen this time.”

One time. One time of turning into a tomato and you never hear the end of it.

“Bite me.”

****

 

*My brain’s animated version of this, complete with sound effects, is somehow hilarious-yet-awful and I cackled at myself for far too long.


	116. Day Tripper (Epilogue)

Mark lays down the law and makes them stay in town for another week. They abandon the mall when the sun’s up, though, and spend the week hotel-hopping.

The boss is…kind of improved. Y’know. In a manner of speaking. He’s still bruised to hell and sometimes he’ll start shaking for no reason (Mark mutters about abuse of a TENS machine and says it’ll wear off.) Going to the car has left him white as a sheet and beaded with sweat, but when Trent offered to pick him up he refused. Whatever.

He’s collapsed in the passenger’s seat, breathing deeply, when Antoine slides behind the wheel.

“You okay, boss?”

“Mm.” He reaches up to adjust his sunglasses, hand brushing the still-purple bruise on his jaw. “S’bright.”

“Yeah, maybe sleep for the drive, huh, sir?”

“M’not gonna sleep.” He pitches his voice to be heard over the chatter in the back. “I hear one lullaby, the singer is getting drop-kicked out into traffic.”

Antoine is going to be nice and not mention that he can barely sit up, let alone inflict bodily harm.

“No singing,” he says instead. “I need silence in city traffic.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a grandma,” Jimmy mocks. Pitching his voice to some sort of high, shaky tone, he continues, “Theeeeese young whippersnappers are always in such a hurry, in **my** day-”

“I’ll cut your grandma,” he mutters. Jimmy, the asshole, cackles. The boss shakes his head and pulls his arms inside his hoodie.

“A grandma nearly hit me in a crosswalk once.”

Of course she did. This is Gotham, home of the supervillains and casual jerks.

“Was she aiming for you?”

“Who knows.”

Antoine’s just gonna let that go.

They’re in a traffic jam on the highway when Antoine realizes it’s been **really** quiet for a while. All is well in the back seat, and the boss-

-is asleep, slumped against the window with his sunglasses halfway down his nose. Ha. Jimmy owes him money. He sticks a hand back there, palm up, and a second later there’s a muffled curse and twenty bucks smacks his skin harder than is strictly necessary. Frank climbs up and moves the seat belt so it’s not cutting into his neck.

“We should move him so he’s lying down,” Mark grumbles. He’s still bitter that the boss insisted on his usual shotgun to begin with, despite the fact that the seat’s reclined pretty far. Frank shakes his head.

“Leave him be, he’s asleep.”

“I know, but-”

“No. He’s out cold, leave him be.”

Antoine, privately, is with Frank on this one. It’s not like they don’t know about the nightmares. It’s impossible to not know.

Mark lets it go, but he’s still scowling. The van’s quiet for a while before Martin suddenly asks, “Where are we going?”

SHIT-

“Kid, goddammit-” Breathe. Breathe. Do not wake the boss. Do not scare the kid. “Did you seriously get in the car without any idea of where the car was going?”

“Not like I have anywhere else to go.”

That’s both sad and maddening.

Jimmy throws an arm around the kid’s shoulders and grins.

“I think you can legally drink in Santa Prisca.”

The look Frank throws him is one of grounding and murder.

“Absolutely not.”

“But-”

“NO.”

A quiet argument starts up in the back and Antoine sighs, huddles over the wheel, and wonders if traffic will move anytime soon.

The argument is still going when they start moving again, and that’s the entire reason he doesn’t notice that the boss is awake until he says, “You’re not gonna forget sunscreen this time, are you?”

Really.

He gets no respect, man. None whatsoever.

“Go back to sleep, boss.”

Up ahead, the beautiful sign of ‘You are now leaving Gotham!’ grows closer. It’s probably telling that there’s no ‘Come back soon!’ on it.

He flips it off anyway, just in case that’s implied. And he’s sure it’s not his imagination that a flower growing under it seems to get a little bigger.

Santa Prisca, here they come.

THE END


	117. Homeostasis, Pt. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, a return to our regular programming. Hold on tight to whatever warm fuzzy feelings you got from our little break…you'll need them very soon. Coming up for this story: death, psychological trauma, injury. Not necessarily in that order.

The Coffee Shop Three are the Coffee Shop Two when Jason returns. He almost overlooks them for that reason.

This is bad.

He arms himself with happy thoughts and an open espresso tab before approaching them. They do not take their final forms and murder him where he stands, so…that's good? He thinks that's good? He's still alive, and…seventy-five percent of the time, he thinks that's a good thing.

(Well, seventy-five point two percent of the time, anyway. He only meant it a little when he asked for something to kill him when he couldn't get out of his wet jeans last week.)

"Hey, boys," he says carefully. As much as he hates sitting with his back to a crowd, it beats being trapped in a corner with these two. "Where's the third member of your trio of knowledge?"

"Stomach flu," _Bucky, Take the Wheel!_ shirt says. "As he deserves for licking the sample."

Damn. They're harsh.

"I'm sorry?"

"He did it to himself." Jeeze! Bruce, at his most holier-than-thou, had more sympathy. "But he isn't done looking at it. He's been…holding court…since last night."

To be fair, he did lick the questionable scientific sample. And he's not dead, which is a good sign. And maybe, just maybe, it really is the stomach flu.

But. Everyone with common sense knows you **don't** lick science (and in zoology, science licks you!).

"That's, uh, that's fine. He can take his time." If it really is stomach flu, he wants no part of it. It only takes one time of puking in the helmet to know you **never** want to do that again. "Long as he needs."

Bucky snorts.

"We'll kick him until he's better."

Must be a cultural difference. Who is he to judge the habits of lizard-men?

Damn is he glad he's not one of them, though. Being kicked sounds incredibly unhelpful.

"Um, thanks? I guess?"

"No further sightings."

He knows a dismissal when he hears one. Seeing as they didn't take revenge on him, he's going to be grateful and get outta town while he still can.

* * *

Lucy Dixon lives in a fancy apartment in midtown, where it's still kinda crappy, but not Crime-Alley levels. You can see that part of town from here, but the apartment's high enough that the nitty-gritty, the hookers and the homeless and the despair, is out of view.

He tries not to be convinced that's somehow symbolic.

She's not home when he lets himself in through the window, which is great. Means he can do some poking around.

The first thing that sticks out is a kid's room. It's standard toddler fare, race car bed, little bookshelf, couple'a stuffed animals and action figures. There's a little yellow cape and a dollar-store domino mask tossed over the foot of the bed. Kid's still young enough to believe in heroes. Must be nice.

The adult bedroom clearly houses a single parent-the twin bed, shoved up against the wall to make room for a desk, is a dead giveaway. Said desk has a big blank square where the laptop probably lives, but around it is a bunch of crumpled papers. Bills, mostly. Hospital bills, to be specific.

Well, well. Things make sense now, don't they.

He meanders out into the kitchen, refills his water bottle, and settles down at the table to wait. It feels good to get off his feet for a little while-he managed to squirm into a bad position last night and his right knee is paying the price. It's not bad, not as bad as it could be, but he **knows** that if he lands wrong on too hard of a surface that it's going to drop him like he's hot.

The kitchen's warm, lived-in. The fridge is covered with photographs and crayon-drawings and there's a whiteboard hanging over the microwave that has 'spec. Thurs.' written on it in neat print.

Alfred has a chalkboard, he remembers suddenly. It's by the fridge. He and Dick used to put 'X days without Kitchen Incident' on it, but Alfred uses it for practical things like 'need eggs'. Mom had a notepad. Sometimes she'd take it down and let him draw a picture or four. They were never great-about the same as the ones on the fridge here-but she always put them in her drawer anyway.

He sighs and drapes himself over the back of the chair a little more, kinda wishing he could take the helmet off for a few minutes. Maybe he should start wearing a domino mask under it…

Nah. He tried, once, After, but it made his face hurt **and** the edge hit the brand just wrong. So no more mask for him.

A moth flutters against the light bulb and he shudders, **knows** the bitter moistness in his mouth isn't real.

**Snick-snick.**

Ah. Somebody's home.

**Da-da-da-da-da-da…I…am…your singing telegram…**

Dixon walks into the kitchen, plunks her purse on the counter and **then** seems to realize that she's not alone.

"Oh my god-"

"Don't run," he says, and he doesn't mean to sound that tired, s'just…he is that tired. "You won't get anywhere and all it'll do is getcha skinned knees."

"Please don't hurt me-"

"Don't give me a reason to." He won't. Not unless she like, takes a kid hostage or something. "I just want some information on a new friend of yours."

Dixon's the soccer mom personified: 'let me see your manager' haircut, sensible shoes, a set of the shoulders that screams 'I will cut you if you don't take this coupon'. A closer look, though, shows crow's feet around her eyes and dark shadows under them. Her cheeks are sunken, a little, and her skin's an exhausted yellow color.

And right now, she looks very much like a cornered animal. But she gets herself under control, at least a little, straightens up and grips the back of the other chair. Her hands are tight. She's trying to stay upright, not get a grip to attack him.

"You can siddown. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"No."

Fine.

He stands up and she pulls back a few inches, jaw tense and fingers flexing.

"You're working with a mystery man on weaponized moth silk," he says flatly. "Don't bother denying it, we both know it's true."

For a minute, he thinks she'll do it anyway. But then her shoulders drop and her hands relax.

"Is that a crime now?"

"Not necessarily. Depends on what you know."

"Nothing," she says immediately. Too quickly. He sighs. People are so fucking **selfish.**

He's not going to hurt her. Scaring her out of her wits, on the other hand? Sure.

"Don't lie to me." He yanks the chair out of her hands. "People are **dying** from this shit. You're in it for the money, I know. Sick kid, right?"

"You leave Jamie out of this-"

"Lotta people are in your boat. Lotta people are worse off than you. You're not special, and if you're getting people killed, you're not noble, either. You know something about this guy, and I wanna know what that is. **Now.** "

She's cringing, back against the kitchen counter and eyes wide. Her knees are knocking together. He doesn't remember getting this close to her, close enough to see the fine lines around her mouth.

The moth abandons its pursuit of the lamp in favor of landing on the cupboard about her head. He swallows a bitter taste and wills his hands to stop trying to curl into fists.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay. Just please don't hurt me."

"Then talk."

She doesn't, at first. Just breathes deep and keeps glancing from his helmet to the guns at his hips to the floor. Then it's like her mouth can't stay shut.

"I've never seen his face. He has a…" She gestures over her mouth and nose. "A flu mask or something, and sunglasses. Says he's sensitive to the light." That's pretty common in Gotham, funnily enough, at least in the circles he runs in. Hell, if you've got a strong enough flashlight, you can fend off Killer Croc for at least a few minutes. "He pays in cash, calls himself Mister Glossata, but I don't think that's his name." He doesn't, either. Only the really arrogant or the really stupid ones just go handing out their names. Still, it's a start. "He came to me. I don't know what he wants with this stuff, but he said he'd pay me-you don't understand-"

"When is he supposed to come back?"

"What?"

"For another pickup or whatever."

"Oh. Um." She swallows, eyes finally gluing themselves to the floor. "He doesn't. He just. He calls, a couple of days before."

How dare he be inconvenient like that?

"Tell you what," he says at last, stepping over to the chalkboard and picking up the piece of chalk hanging off it. "First, I want you to call the Thomas Wayne foundation. Tell them the Red Hood told you to do it, explain what's going on with your kid. Okay? Second, when this, uh, Mister Glossata calls you, you call this number **immediately**." He scrawls his burner number down and drops the chalk. "I'll know if you don't, and then I'll have to pay another house call."

"I-I-" Frantic swallowing, then, "Yes. Yes, fine."

"Good."

Her knees are starting to give. He shoves the chair back towards her and hears her fall into it just as he opens the door.

* * *

He's hurting and exhausted when he collapses on his bed around four in the morning. His side throbs and he has the nasty, sick feeling that it's going to be one of **Those** nights, the kind where he closes his eyes and sees a swinging bulb and tiles and teeth. His bones hurt in places. He's never sure if it's psychosomatic or poor healing or both, but it doesn't matter. His electric blanket does the trick. Sometimes it even keeps the nightmares at bay, or at least at manageable levels.

But not tonight. He wakes with the sun, laughter in his ear and wings on his tongue, and flings an arm across his eyes. Somewhere in the building, somebody's making pumpkin bread. Somebody else is kicking out their one-night stand. The Stand complains in the hallway for a few minutes before shuffling off.

The pumpkin bread smell is making him hungry and he hauls his ass outta bed, ankle threatening to dump him on the floor, and clings to the wall for a minute before heading to the kitchen. Fuckin' figures…temperature's dropping and his rheumatism is kicking in…he's too young to rock the Get Off My Lawn look, man! He doesn't want suspenders! Suspenders are for old people and the Replacement!

Food, food…breakfast burrito sounds good. You can never go wrong with bacon. Bacon is the meat candy.

Food made and electric blanket dragged to the couch, Jason settles in with Jane to see about the guy. There are no Glossatas, Misters or otherwise, in Gotham, as it turns out. Unfortunately, Google informs him that he's probably got a budding Themed Weirdo on his hands.

**Glossata:** **A taxonomic** **suborder** **within the** **order** **Lepidoptera** **– many** **moths** **.**

Great. Great! Of course it is. It can't just be some guy figuring 'moth silk's strong, good binding properties, add a bit of poison and they'll never know it was me! Ahahaha!'

Something's tugging at the edges of his brain, some…some snippet of…it'll come to him eventually. Probably at the worst possible time, but he'll get it. For now, he needs to take a hot shower and maybe a nap, and then later see if Mister Yuk is feeling any better.


	118. Beware the Jabberwock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied child molestation and mutilation.
> 
> …sorry, Jervis, but I reread A Serious House on Serious Earth and you’re a creepy bastard in there. Your Arkhamverse incarnation isn’t that much better.

Dick has seen Jason angry. Hell, he’s seen him downright **furious** , to the point that there were times, as Robin, that he or Bruce had to physically remove him from the situation.

But this is something else. This isn’t…this isn’t Jason at all, this is rage with only one outlet, and that outlet is Jervis Tetch.

Jervis, in his time in Gotham, has gone from ‘yet another madman with a gimmick’ to ‘never enter society again’. He doesn’t break out all the often, not on his own, but sometimes he’ll catch a ride with someone else, or take advantage of another escape to slip away.

This time, though, he had planned his escape, had pulled it off so well that he was gone a full day before anyone noticed he was missing.

And that day was enough. It was enough for him to find a new Alice (real name: Danny Margo, aged eleven), and go underground with her.

It’s been a week. One long, frantic week that only came to an end because Crane is a petty, petty man and, upon being recaptured, ratted him out. His reasoning? ‘If you bring him back with a broken jaw, he can’t spout off those damn rhymes.’

To be fair, Jervis can’t be easy to share a cell block with. He…chatters.

Unfortunately, Jason was closer to the man’s location. Dick wasn’t thinking about that at the time, he was thinking about Danny, and about getting there in time (please let them be in time), not about…Jervis. And what he’s become (always was?).

Danny’s all right. She’s sitting by the front door, actually, wrapped up in Jason’s jacket and clutching a thermos that, on inspection, has hot chocolate in it.

“Hey,” he says, crouches down. “I’m Nightwing.”

She nods, tangled blonde strands falling in her face, and gives him a shy smile.

“He said you’d come.”

“Red Hood?”

“Uh-huh. He said to wait here unless there was fire.”

Knowing Jason, fire is a distinct possibility.

“Do you know where he went?”

She points down a dim hallway, lined with off-kilter pictures that do nothing to cover the scratched-at wallpaper.

“He’s with the bad man.”

Oh.

Oh, **shit.**

“Stay here unless there’s fire,” he says, and then he’s running, mind cataloging the scratches in the wallpaper as finger-caused. A picture’s been pulled off, too. It’s on the ground, glass shattered where somebody probably stepped on it.

Jervis’s…work room…is in the basement. There’s muffled hitting sounds, and a maybe a sob or two, but other than that, Dick has no way of knowing what he’s walking into. Which means it’s totally necessary to kick the door in.

The room is well-lit, and colorful, with a table all set for tea smack-dab in the middle of it. There’s two corpses, one wearing a rabbit’s mask and the other wearing a mouse’s, lying against the far wall. Jervis himself is lying on the table, tea set shattered under him, trying to protect his head from-

-that appears to be a cane with (now very bloody) fake roses glued to it. It would be laughable, in a very horrible way, if it weren’t so serious. Jervis is barely recognizable. He’s bleeding…everywhere, is the best Dick’s got…and there is at least one bone saying hello to the outside world. Feet aren’t supposed to point that way. That’s definitely a tooth on the plate with the cupcakes. There’s three boney fingers wedged into a three-layer cake at the head of the table, and there’s **something** (what is that?) in his mouth. How he’s still conscious, let alone alive, is…quite frankly, it’s impressive.

And then there’s Jason. Dick will admit that, from time to time, he forgets that there is a **reason** a good chunk of the Underworld nopes right the fuck out when there’s a Red Hood sighting. Jason’s a dork whose favorite book is _Pride and Prejudice._ His idea of a good time is watching BBC and cooking with Alfred. He gives candy and piggyback rides to the Alley Kids.

And right now, he’s beating the ever-loving **shit** out of Jervis Tetch. Jason Todd has left the building. In his place is…is **that** , body armor spattered with blood, helmet gleaming demonically in the bright light.

“Hood!” he shouts. “Hood, that’s enough!”

Jason’s head snaps up like he’s been backhanded.

“That’s **enough?** ” There’s a broken chuckle before he steps back, twirling the rose-staff in his hands. “That’s enough? Aww, ‘Wing, don’t tell me you feel bad for this sick, twisted, **scum-of-the-earth--** ” Those last four words punctuated with a blow to an already-broken leg. “—do you? Naw, I misheard ya. I **know** I misheard ya.”

He’s not scared of Jason. He’s relatively sure he could take him down, if it came to it. But he doesn’t want to, and he’s not sure he won’t come out of it injured.

“He’s not gonna hurt her anymore,” he says carefully. “Look, I’ll do the cleanup, if you want to take her to Gord--”

He doesn’t see Jason move. But he must have, because there’s now a gun in his hand where there wasn’t one before.

“Turn around, and walk away,” he says. “Take Danny to Gordon, I’ll finish up.”

“I can’t let you do that, Hood.”

“No?” The helmet tilts to the left, considering. “Of course not. Big, bad, Batman’s got you too well-trained for that, huh. Or is it ‘cause you really think you can **fix** him? Is that it?”

“He’s not attacking you. He’s not an active threat.”

“Yeah. Shattered kneecaps tend to do that.”

Yes. Yes, they do. Jervis is lucky it’s not a shattered neck.

“So c’mon. Take Danny out of here, I’ll get Tetch.”

“Y’know how I found him, Nightwing?” Uh-oh. That particular jovial tone never bodes well. “You don’t wanna know. Danny probably doesn’t want you to know. But there is a **reason** those fingers aren’t going back on. Ain’t that right, Jervis?”

There’s a whimper from the table, but no other response. The gun doesn’t lower and for a minute, Dick thinks Jason’ll shoot **somebody** -him, Jervis, the corpses over there. Jason may be considering it, for all he knows. But then he holsters the gun, tosses the rose-staff away, and strolls out into the hall with a careless, “You’re right, he’s not an active threat anymore.”

Dick doesn’t find out what that means right away. He waits a minute or two, until he can clearly hear Jason (and it really is Jason, dorky, awkward-turtle Jason) soothing Danny in the other room. Now that he’s not going to take a gun butt to the head, he figures it’s safe to call the paramedics and catalogue the damage.

He finds out three things pretty much immediately. One, Jason’s sense of Poetic Justice really hasn’t changed. Two, at some point in the recent past, he’s learned to cauterize wounds. And three, Jervis isn’t an active threat anymore. He never will be again.

Later, he’ll be horrified. Maybe guiltily relieved, given the circumstances. But right now, his brain refuses to be anything less than clinical, which is why his hand doesn’t shake when he pulls the severed penis from its owner’s mouth.

THE END


	119. Homeostasis, Pt. 8

AN: This will be the last update until November, because Dr. Crane is in the driver’s seat for all of October.

_I am also perpetually available for those who need…psychological help._

Uh, Dr. Crane…

_Shh. The fear of judgement is a common issue in people who need assistance. This is a judgement-free zone, and I am here to help. Step into my office. It’s always open._

* * *

Jason is roused from his nap by his phone screaming, “WAKE ME UP INSIDE!” at a highly unreasonable volume. He regrets his life choices.

He flails for it, considers stuffing it under the couch (it really does feel like murder, that’s not just a joke), and answers it. Grudgingly.

“Red Hood, for when Batman can’t cut it.”

There’s a startled laugh on the other end followed by, “This is Maria Giles.”

Oh. Oh! Okay.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m calling for a friend of yours who just checked into Mercy hospital.” That’s bad. “Says he wants to see you as soon as possible about a sample you gave him.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He scrambles off the couch, tripping over his blanket, and fumbles for pants.

“Sure, sure thing. What room is he in, I’ll be right over.”

“One-oh-eight. He’s not sharing. I can have the desk-”

“I’ll just drop in.” He’s not risking the desk. Mercy hospital has had the same receptionist for fifty years and he’d been there a few times as a kid. Not for Robin-stuff, just…normal bad luck. Appendix, that kinda thing. But she remembers **everyone**. He’s convinced she’s not human.

“Okay. I gotta go, so…”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

She hangs up and he finally manages to get his jeans on. This. This is why you don’t fucking lick science, you fool. SCIENCE ISN’T FOOD. Why do his informants have to be dumb? Dick’s informants aren’t like this!

…wait, wait, yes they are, he forgot about Brad. Sorry, Brad.

BUT STILL.

Traffic’s not bad. There’s a cop on traffic duty over on Charlotte, but that’s only because the light’s missing. Judging from the wreckage still remaining, Bruce and his shitty driving took it out. And yet somehow, he’s the one getting flak…goddamn channel four news and their whiny, ‘Red Hood blew up a warehouse! Woe! WOE is us!’ It was an **abandoned** warehouse, with a crap-ton of cocaine in it, you ungrateful swine. Nobody even died.

Humph.

This being Gotham, the hospital’s jumping. He can hear screams, even out here, that say somebody’s had a run-in with Scarecrow. Entering the lobby grants him a glimpse of somebody whose…um…

“Mr. Miller, this is the third time this month!”

Mr. Miller shrugs. It’s awkward-looking, with his arms (prosthetics? They don’t look it…) shoved in a backpack.

“Drink your milk, sweetcheeks.”* Creep. He’s gotta be ninety if he’s a day, and the desk girl’s what, twenty? If? She’s got this, though, just rolls her eyes and jabs a thumb down the hall. Jason doesn’t wanna know. He doesn’t.

(But he might grab a thing of milk on the way home…)

Only in Gotham, man.

Whatever.

Mister Yuk (that real name, on his door? That’s a lie, it’s probably just an approximation of his lizard-name.) is green, sweaty, and a generally gross and pitiful figure. Hospitals are already the one place on earth that strip you of your dignity (being tortured is still better than being crammed into an assless paper gown, thanks), but hospital for stomach problems?

Bummer, buddy.

Really, it’s frightening that he was able to just walk in here. What kinda place are they running? Then again, there’s a guy whose arms are in his backpack out there. A rando in a leather jacket is **nothing** in comparison.

And sometimes…sometimes he forgets that people really don’t see him. He doesn’t mean to be sneaky, s’just…old habits.

“Hey, Hood.”

He waves, shuts the door and hopes a nurse doesn’t decide to pop by.

“I can’t exactly get you coffee,” he says, “but I could maybe smuggle in chicken soup that’s not canned.”

Mister Yuk makes a face.

“I’m never eating again.”

This is a valid response. Look at that, lizard-men are people, too!

He plunks into the visitor’s chair, one eye on the door, and wonders if he’s supposed to make small talk or try to get this over with as fast as possible. He’s never seen one of them outside of their natural habitat before, and **never** alone. It’s a truly unique experience.

“Can’t blame ya,” he says. “Look, you probably wanna get back to sleep, so I’ll make this quick. What’d you find out about the sample I gave you?”

Mister Yuk sits up a bit and pulls a blue bucket a little closer to his bed.

“Much,” he says. “The silk is very similar to that produced by the genus _Acheronitia-_ ”

“English.”

“The death’s-head hawkmoth. The one with the skull on its back.”

Why, man. Why are you Like This, unknown moth guy.

“Great.”

Mister Yuk nods, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Yeah. He must’ve had a sample of the real thing, which is pretty impressive. They don’t like Gotham.” Nothing likes Gotham. “Anyways, it’s similar, but not exact, and it does have some sort of poison, but I think that’s painted on or otherwise added later, because I was able to scrape some of it off.”

And that’s why you don’t lick science.

“Think that’s what made you sick?”

“Yeah.” Mister Yuk sounds amazingly unconcerned. Jason spares a moment to be grateful he’s at least neutral, rather than full supervillain. “I’ve had worse. Don’t drink the chunky milk.” He’s gonna be sick. “Anyways, it’s similar, but not exact-it’s been strengthened by manmade means, so it’s more of a blend than a true silk.” He sounds disappointed that his tongue-test was wrong. Jason doesn’t even care. His brain is stuck on ‘chunky milk’. “The poison is probably designed to be strong enough to penetrate clothing and skin, but I was unable to confirm that.”

“You, uh, you did good,” he says, changing his mind on grabbing a milk on his way home. Water’s good. “That helps a lot. Thanks.”

Mister Yuk suddenly goes green, whips his glasses off, and pulls the bucket onto the bed. Jason takes this time to leave the room, collaring a nurse on his way out.

* * *

He spends the rest of the day researching the death’s-head hawkmoth (they infiltrate beehives? And chirp? The More You Know…) and poking around for Moth Societies in Gotham. Weirdly enough, there’s not that many. For a science-y city, that’s…unusual. But to be fair, when everyone and their brother has a fifty-fifty shot of growing up to be a bad guy…

Of the few that exist, there’s only one that has a heavy focus on foreign moths. The others are interested in either the normal local moths, or the effects of fear toxin/Joker venom/Poison Ivy/WHATEVER on said local moths. (At least one species has gotten bigger over the past decade. That’s ominous.)

He accidentally ends up going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about venomous caterpillars-for once, not a Gotham specialty-and is just scratching at his arm with no small amount of paranoia when there’s a knock on the door.

“Hang on!” Venomous caterpillars…he’s never felt so betrayed. “Be right there!”

Mz. Melinda May has never paid that any mind, and she doesn’t start now. The door opens up and she comes in, cane heavy against the floor.

“Haven’t seen you for a few days,” she croaks, wrinkles spreading into a relieved smile. “Last time that happened, you had a plant growin’ in you.”

Fair point.

“Yeah, been a little busy,” he admits, putting his laptop aside. “Your TV working and everything?”

“I don’t know what you did, but it hasn’t so much as lost a channel.”

Yeah…a little percussive maintenance solves almost everything, from broken TVs to cocky Robins. Who’d have thought, huh?

“I keep telling you it’s on its last legs-”

“Pshaw.” She cocks a brow at him and he’s not scared, he’s not. Just…wary. “I don’t need one of your Siris or Alexas or whatever it is the kids have these days.” He had a Siri once. The phone fell into the bay, but not before it scolded him for swearing. Fuck Siri and everything it stands for. “You eaten today?”

“Eggs, earlier…”

The look he gets is scathing. She brushes past him, wrenches open his fridge, and makes a noise that would be more at home in a Godzilla movie.

“Come on.”

“Huh?”

“There is no food in this apartment.”

Yes, there is! There’s a whole half a zucchini right there! And a thing of orange juice!

…

Yes, he knows, he needs to shop. He’s been busy. And some days it’s just not going to happen, okay? Let’s see you leave the house after thirty hours of no sleep, **Carol.**

“Sorry?”

“What would your momma say, hm?”

“I think she’d be kind of amazed that I’m still alive, to be honest.”

“Out.” A gnarled hand pops up and grabs his sleeve. “You are going to eat before leaving this building, and that’s final.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

 

 

*Mr. Miller hails from a Got Milk? commercial from the 90s, and this one really IS an ‘Only 90s kids remember’ thing-I saw it **once**. I think they took it off. YouTube has it, though, so ask for giggles/mild trauma.


End file.
